LIBRARY 

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IRVINE 


THE]  [BRARY 


THE  UNIVERSITY 


OF  CAL  [FORNIA 


GIFT  OF 

John  and  Mary  Prescott 


The  FLAMING   FOREST 


The  idea  of  being  lugged  off  like  a  baby  was  embarrassing. 


THE 

FLAMING  FOREST 


BY 

JAMES    OLIVER  CURWOOD 


AUTHOR  OF 

THE  VALLEY  OF  SILENT  MEN, 
THE  RIVER'S  END,  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED  BY 

WALT  LOUDERBACK 


GROSSET    &    DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS  NEW    YORK 

Made  in  the  United  States  of  America 


Copyright,  1921,  by  Cosmopolitan  Book  Corporation,  New  York. 
All  rights  reserved,  including  that  of  translation  into  foreign 
languages,  including  the  Scandinavian. 


PS 
3  s  OS 


FS 


Printed    in     the     United    States     of    America 


THE    ILLUSTRATIONS 


THE  IDEA  OF  BEING  LUGGED  OFF  LIKE  A  BABY  WAS 

EMBARRASSING  Frontispiece 


FACING 
PAGE 


"YOU  COMPREN'?    IF  YOU  TRY  RUN  AWAY,  BATEESE 

EES  COIN*  KEEL  YOU  I"  86 


DAVID  WAITED,  PREPARED  TO  MEET  THE  RUSH  OF 

A  MADMAN  224 


HE    STUMBLED    AGAIN    AND    AGAIN    IN    THE    FIRE- 
MUCK  284 


The  FLAMING  FOREST 


The  FLAMING  FOREST 


A  N  hour  ago,  under  the  marvelous  canopy  of  the 
•*•  *•  blue  northern  sky,  David  Carrigan,  Sergeant  in 
His  Most  Excellent  Majesty's  Royal  Northwest 
Mounted  Police,  had  hummed  softly  to  himself,  and 
had  thanked  God  that  he  was  alive.  He  had  blessed 
Me  Vane,  superintendent  of  "N"  Division  at  Athabasca 
Landing,  for  detailing  him  to  the  mission  on  which  he 
was  bent.  He  was  glad  that  he  was  traveling  alone,  and 
in  the  deep  forest,  and  that  for  many  weeks  his  ad 
venture  would  carry  him  deeper  and  deeper  into  his 
beloved  north.  Making  his  noonday  tea  over  a  fire 
at  the  edge  of  the  river,  with  the  green  forest  crowd 
ing  like  an  inundation  on  three  sides  of  him,  he  had 
come  to  the  conclusion — for  the  hundredth  time,  per 
haps — that  it  was  a  nice  thing  to  be  alone  in  the  world, 
for  he  was  on  what  his  comrades  at  the  Landing  called 
a  "bad  assignment." 

"If  anything  happens  to  me,"  Carrigan  had  said  to 
Me  Vane,  "there  isn't  anybody  in  particular  to  notify. 
I  lost  out  in  the  matter  of  family  a  long  time  ago." 


2  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

He  was  not  a  man  who  talked  much  about  himself, 
even  to  the  superintendent  of  "N"  Division,  yet  there 
were  a  thousand  who  loved  Dave  Carrigan,  and  many 
who  placed  their  confidences  in  him.  Superintendent 
Me  Vane  had  one  story  which  he  might  have  told,  but 
he  kept  it  to  himself,  instinctively  sensing  the  sacred- 
ness  of  it.  Even  Carrigan  did  not  know  that  the  one 
thing  which  never  passed  his  lips  was  known  to 
McVane. 

Of  that,  too,  he  had  been  thinking  an  hour  ago.  It 
was  the  thing  which,  first  of  all,  had  driven  him  into 
the  north.  And  though  it  had  twisted  and  disrupted  the 
earth  under  his  feet  for  a  time,  it  had  brought  its 
compensation.  For  he  had  come  to  love  the  north  with 
a  passionate  devotion.  It  was,  in  a  way,  his  God.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  the  time  had  never  been  when  he 
had  lived  any  other  life  than  this  under  the  open  skies. 
He  was  thirty-seven  now.  A  bit  of  a  philosopher,  as 
philosophy  comes  to  one  in  a  sun-cleaned  and  unpol 
luted  air.  A  good-humored  brother  of  humanity,  even 
when  he  put  manacles  on  other  men's  wrists;  graying 
a  little  over  the  temples — and  a  lover  of  life.  Above 
all  else  he  was  that.  A  lover  of  life.  A  worshiper 
at  the  shrine  of  God's  Country. 

So  he  sat,  that  hour  ago,  deep  in  the  wilderness 
eighty  miles  north  of  Athabasca  Landing,  congratu 
lating  himself  on  the  present  conditions  of  his  ex 
istence.  A  hundred  and  eighty  miles  farther  on  was 
Fort  McMurray,  and  another  two  hundred  beyond  that 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  3 

was  Chipevvyan,  and  still  beyond  that  the  Mackenzie 
and  its  fifteen-hundred-mile  trail  to  the  northern  sea. 
He  was  glad  there  was  no  end  to  this  world  of  his.  He 
was  glad  there  were  few  people  in  it.  But  these  people 
he  loved.  That  hour  ago  he  had  looked  out  on  the 
river  as  two  York  boats  had  forged  up  against  the 
stream,  craft  like  the  long,  slim  galleys  of  old,  brought 
over  through  the  Churchill  and  Clearwater  countries 
from  Hudson's  Bay.  There  were  eight  rowers  in  each 
boat.  They  were  singing.  Their  voices  rolled  between 
the  walls  of  the  forests.  Their  naked  arms  and  shoul 
ders  glistened  in  the  sun.  They  rowed  like  Vikings, 
and  to  him  they  were  symbols  of  the  freedom  of  the 
world.  He  had  watched  them  until  they  were  gone 
up-stream,  but  it  was  a  long  time  before  the  chanting 
of  their  voices  had  died  away.  And  then  he  had  risen 
from  beside  his  tiny  fire,  and  had  stretched  himself 
until  his  muscles  cracked.  It  was  good  to  feel  the 
blood  running  red  and  strong  in  one's  veins  at  the  age 
of  thirty-seven.  For  Carrigan  felt  the  thrill  of  these 
days  when  strong  men  were  coming  out  of  the  north — 
days  when  the  glory  of  June  hung  over  the  land,  when 
out  of  the  deep  wilderness  threaded  by  the  Three 
Rivers  came  romance  and  courage  and  red-blooded  men 
and  women  of  an  almost  forgotten  people  to  laugh  and 
sing  and  barter  for  a  time  with  the  outpost  guardians 
of  a  younger  and  more  progressive  world.  It  was 
north  of  Fifty-Four,  and  the  waters  of  a  continent 
flowed  toward  the  Arctic  Sea.  Yet  soon  would  the 


4  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

strawberries  be  crushing  red  underfoot;  the  forest  rose 
was  in  bloom,  scarlet  fire-flowers  reddened  the  trail, 
wild  hyacinths  and  golden-freckled  violets  played  hide- 
and-seek  with  the  forget-me-nots  in  the  meadows,  and 
the  sky  was  a  great  splash  of  velvety  blue.  It  was  the 
north  triumphant — at  the  edge  of  civilization;  the 
north  triumphant,  and  yet  paying  its  tribute.  For  at  the 
other  end  were  waiting  the  royal  Upper  Ten  Thousand 
and  the  smart  Four  Hundred  with  all  the  beau  monde 
behind  them,  coveting  and  demanding  that  tribute  to 
their  sex — the  silken  furs  of  a  far  country,  the  life's 
blood  and  labor  of  a  land  infinitely  beyond  the  pale 
of  drawing-rooms  and  the  whims  of  fashion. 

Carrigan  had  thought  of  these  things  that  hour  ago, 
as  he  sat  at  the  edge  of  the  first  of  the  Three  Rivers, 
the  great  Athabasca.  From  down  the  other  two,  the 
Slave  and  the  Mackenzie,  the  fur  fleets  of  the  un 
mapped  country  had  been  toiling  since  the  first  break 
ups  of  ice.  Steadily, week  after  week, the  north  had  been 
emptying  itself  of  its  picturesque  tide  of  life  and  voice, 
of  muscle  and  brawn,  of  laughter  and  song — and 
wealth.  Through  long  months  of  deep  winter,  in  ten 
thousand  shacks  and  tepees  and  cabins,  the  story  of 
this  June  had  been  written  as  fate  had  written  it  each 
winter  for  a  hundred  years  or  more.  A  story  of  the 
triumph  of  the  fittest.  A  story  of  tears,  of  happiness 
here  and  there,  of  hunger  and  plenty,  of  new  life  and 
quick  death;  a  story  of  strong  men  and  strong  women, 
living  in  the  faith  of  their  forefathers,  with  the  best 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  5 

blood  of  old  England  and  France  still  surviving  in  their 
veins. 

Through  those  same  months  of  winter,  the  great 
captains  of  trade  in  the  city  of  Edmonton  had  been 
preparing  for  the  coming  of  the  river  brigades.  The 
hundred  and  fifty  miles  of  trail  between  that  last  city 
outpost  of  civilization  and  Athabasca  Landing,  the 
door  that  opened  into  the  North,  were  packed  hard  by 
team  and  dog-sledge  and  packer  bringing  up  the  freight 
that  for  another  year  was  to  last  the  forest  people 
of  the  Three  River  country — a  domain  reaching  from 
the  Landing  to  the  Arctic  Ocean.  In  competition 
fought  the  drivers  of  Revillon  Brothers  and  Hudson's 
Bay,  of  free  trader  and  independent  adventurer. 
Freight  that  grew  more  precious  with  each  mile  it  ad 
vanced  must  reach  the  beginning  of  the  waterway.  It 
started  with  the  early  snows.  The  tide  was  at  full  by 
midwinter.  In  temperature  that  nipped  men's  lungs  it 
did  not  cease.  There  was  no  let-up  in  the  whip-hands 
of  the  masters  of  trade  at  Edmonton,  Winnipeg, 
Montreal,  and  London  across  the  sea.  It  was  not  a 
work  of  philanthropy.  These  men  cared  not  whether 
Jean  and  Jacqueline  and  Pierre  and  Marie  were  well- 
fed  or  hungry,  whether  they  lived  or  died,  so  far  as 
humanity  was  concerned.  But  Paris,  Vienna,  London, 
and  the  great  capitals  of  the  earth  must  have  their 
furs — and  unless  that  freight  went  north,  there  would 
be  no  velvety  offerings  for  the  white  shoulders  of  the 
world.  Christmas  windows  two  years  hence  would 


6  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

be  bare.  A  feminine  wail  of  grief  would  rise  to  the 
skies.  For  woman  must  have  her  furs,  and  in  return 
for  those  furs  Jean  and  Jacqueline  and  Pierre  and 
Marie  must  have  their  freight.  So  the  pendulum 
swung,  as  it  had  swung  for  a  century  or  two,  touching, 
on  the  one  side,  luxury,  warmth,  wealth,  and  beauty; 
on  the  other,  cold  and  hardship,  deep  snows  and  open 
skies — with  that  precious  freight  the  thing  between. 

And  now,  in  this  year  before  rail  and  steamboat, 
the  glory  of  early  summer  was  at  hand,  and  the 
wilderness  people  were  coming  up  to  meet  the  freight. 
The  Three  Rivers — the  Athabasca,  the  Slave,  and  the 
Mackenzie,  all  joining  in  one  great  two-thousand-mile 
waterway  to  the  northern  sea — were  athrill  with  the 
wild  impulse  and  beat  of  life  as  the  forest  people  lived 
it.  The  Great  Father  had  sent  in  his  treaty  money, 
and  Cree  song  and  Chipewyan  chant  joined  the  age-old 
melodies  of  French  and  half-breed.  Countless  canoes 
drove  past  the  slower  and  mightier  scow  brigades ;  huge 
York  boats  with  two  rows  of  oars  heaved  up  and  down 
like  the  ancient  galleys  of  Rome;  tightly  woven  cribs 
of  timber,  and  giant  rafts  made  up  of  many  cribs  were 
ready  for  their  long  drift  into  a  timberless  country. 
On  this  two-thousand-mile  waterway  a  world  had  gath 
ered.  It  was  the  Nile  of  the  northland,  and  each  post 
and  gathering  place  along  its  length  was  turned  into 
a  metropolis,  half  savage,  archaic,  splendid  with  the 
strength  of  red  blood,  clear  eyes,  and  souls  that  read 
the  word  of  God  in  wind  and  tree. 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  7 

And  up  and  down  this  mighty  waterway  of  wilder 
ness  trade  ran  the  whispering  spirit  of  song,  like  the 
voice  of  a  mighty  god  heard  under  the  stars  and  in  the 
winds. 

But  it  was  an  hour  ago  that  David  Carrigan  had 
vividly  pictured  these  things  to  himself  close  to  the  big 
river,  and  many  things  may  happen  in  the  sixty  min 
utes  that  follow  any  given  minute  in  a  man's  life.  That 
hour  ago  his  one  great  purpose  had  been  to  bring  in 
Black  Roger  Audemard,  alive  or  dead — Black  Roger, 
the  forest  fiend  who  had  destroyed  half  a  dozen  lives  in 
a  blind  passion  of  vengeance  nearly  fifteen  years  ago. 
For  ten  of  those  fifteen  years  it  had  been  thought  that 
Black  Roger  was  dead.  But  mysterious  rumors  had 
lately  come  out  of  the  North.  He  was  alive.  People 
had  seen  him.  Fact  followed  rumor.  His  existence 
became  certainty.  The  Law  took  up  once  more  his 
hazardous  trail,  and  David  Carrigan  was  the  messenger 
it  sent. 

"Bring  him  back,  alive  or  dead,"  were  Superin 
tendent  McVane's  last  words. 

And  now,  thinking  of  that  parting  injunction,  Carri 
gan  grinned,  even  as  the  sweat  of  death  dampened  his 
face  in  the  heat  of  the  afternoon  sun.  For  at  the  end 
of  those  sixty  minutes  that  had  passed  since  his  mid 
day  pot  of  tea,  the  grimly,  atrociously  unexpected 
had  happened,  like  a  thunderbolt  out  of  the  azure  of 
the  sky. 


II 


TTUDDLED  behind  a  rock  which  was  scarcely  larger 
•*•  "*•  than  his  body,  groveling  in  the  white,  soft  sand 
like  a  turtle  making  a  nest  for  its  eggs,  Carrigan  told 
himself  this  without  any  reservation.  He  was,  as  he 
kept  repeating  to  himself  for  the  comfort  of  his  soul, 
in  a  deuce  of  a  fix.  His  head  was  bare — simply  be 
cause  a  bullet  had  taken  his  hat  away.  His  blond  hair 
was  filled  with  sand.  His  face  was  sweating.  But 
his  blue  eyes  were  alight  with  a  grim  sort  of  humor, 
though  he  knew  that  unless  the  other  fellow's  ammuni 
tion  ran  out  he  was  going  to  die. 

For  the  twentieth  time  in  as  many  minutes  he  looked 
about  him.  He  was  in  the  center  of  a  flat  area  of  sand. 
Fifty  feet  from  him  the  river  murmured  gently  over 
yellow  bars  and  a  carpet  of  pebbles.  Fifty  feet  on  the 
opposite  side  of  him  was  the  cool,  green  wall  of  the 
forest.  The  sunshine  playing  in  it  seemed  like  laughter 
to  him  now,  a  whimsical  sort  of  merriment  roused  by 
the  sheer  effrontery  of  the  joke  which  fate  had  inflicted 
upon  him. 

Between  the  river  and  the  balsam  and  spruce  was 
only  the  rock  behind  which  he  was  cringing  like  a  rab 
bit  afraid  to  take  to  the  open.  And  his  rock  was  a 

8 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  9 

mere  up- jutting1  of  the  solid  floor  of  shale  that  was 
under  him.  The  wash  sand  that  covered  it  like  a 
carpet  was  not  more  than  four  or  five  inches  deep.  He 
could  not  dig  in.  There  was  not  enough  of  it  within 
reach  to  scrape  up  as  a  protection.  And  his  enemy,  a 
hundred  yards  or  so  away,  was  a  determined  wretch 
— and  the  deadliest  shot  he  had  ever  known. 

Three  times  Carrigan  had  made  experiments  to  prove 
this,  for  he  had  in  mind  a  sudden  rush  to  the  shelter 
of  the  timber.  Three  times  he  had  raised  the  crown 
of  his  hat  slightly  above  the  top  of  the  rock,  and  three 
times  the  marksmanship  of  the  other  had  perforated  it 
with  neatness  and  dispatch.  The  third  bullet  had  car 
ried  his  hat  a  dozen  feet  away.  Whenever  he  showed 
a  patch  of  his  clothing,  a  bullet  replied  with  unerring 
precision.  Twice  they  had  drawn  blood.  And  the 
humor  faded  out  of  Carrigan's  eyes. 

Not  long  ago  he  had  exulted  in  the  bigness  and 
glory  of  this  country  of  his,  where  strong  men  met 
hand  to  hand  and  eye  to  eye.  There  were  the  other 
kind  in  it,  the  sort  that  made  his  profession  of  man- 
hunting  a  thing  of  reality  and  danger,  but  he  expected 
these — forgot  them — when  the  wilderness  itself  filled 
his  vision.  But  his  present  situation  was  something 
unlike  anything  that  had  ever  happened  in  his  previous 
experience  with  the  outlawed.  He  had  faced  dangers. 
He  had  fought.  There  were  times  when  he  had  almost 
died.  Fanchet,  the  half-breed  who  had  robbed  a  dozen 
wilderness  mail  sledges,  had  come  nearest  to  trapping 


io  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

him  and  putting  him  out  of  business.  Fanchet  was  a 
desperate  man  and  had  few  scruples.  But  even  Fan 
chet — before  he  was  caught — would  not  have  cornered 
a  man  with  such  bloodthirsty  unfairness  as  Carrigan 
found  himself  cornered  now. 

He  no  longer  had  a  doubt  as  to  what  was  in  the 
other's  mind.  It  was  not  to  wound  and  make  merely 
helpless.  It  was  to  kill.  It  was  not  difficult  to  prove 
this.  Careful  not  to  expose  a  part  of  his  arm  or  shoul 
der,  he  drew  a  white  handkerchief  from  his  pocket, 
fastened  it  to  the  end  of  his  rifle,  and  held  the  flag  of 
surrender  three  feet  above  the  rock.  And  then,  with 
equal  caution,  he  slowly  thrust  up  a  flat  piece  of  shale, 
which  at  a  distance  of  a  hundred  yards  might  appear  as 
his  shoulder  or  even  his  head.  Scarcely  was  it  four 
inches  above  the  top  of  the  rock  before  there  came  the 
report  of  a  rifle,  and  the  shale  was  splintered  into  a 
hundred  bits. 

Carrigan  lowered  his  flag  and  gathered  himself  in 
tighter.  The  accuracy  of  the  other's  marksmanship  was 
appalling.  He  knew  that  if  he  exposed  himself  for 
an  instant  to  use  his  own  rifle  or  the  heavy  automatic 
in  his  holster,  he  would  be  a  dead  man  before  he  could 
press  a  trigger.  And  that  time,  he  felt  equally  sure, 
would  come  sooner  or  later.  His  muscles  were  grow 
ing  cramped.  He  could  not  forever  double  himself 
up  like  a  four-bladed  jackknife  behind  the  altogether 
inefficient  shelter  of  the  rock. 

His  executioner  was  hidden  in  the  edge  of  the  tim- 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  u 

ber,  not  directly  opposite  him,  but  nearly  a  hundred 
yards  down  stream.  Twenty  times  he  had  wondered 
why  the  fiend  with  the  rifle  did  not  creep  up  through 
that  timber  and  take  a  good,  open  pot-shot  at  him 
from  the  vantage  point  which  lay  at  the  end  of  a 
straight  line  between  his  rock  and  the  nearest  spruce 
and  balsam.  From  that  angle  he  could  not  completely 
shelter  himself.  But  the  man  a  hundred  yards  be 
low  had  not  moved  a  foot  from  his  ambush  since  he 
had  fired  his  first  shot.  That  had  come  when  Carrigan 
was  crossing  the  open  space  of  soft,  white  sand.  It 
had  left  a  burning  sensation  at  his  temple — half  an 
inch  to  the  right  and  it  would  have  killed  him.  Swift 
as  the  shot  itself,  he  dropped  behind  the  one  protection 
at  hand,  the  up-jutting  shoulder  of  shale. 

For  a  quarter  of  an  hour  he  had  been  making  ef 
forts  to  wriggle  himself  free  from  his  bulky  shoulder- 
pack  without  exposing  himself  to  a  coup-de-grace.  At 
last  he  had  the  thing  off.  It  was  a  tremendous  relief 
when  he  thrust  it  out  beside  the  rock,  almost  doubling, 
the  size  of  his  shelter.  Instantly  there  came  the  crash 
of  a  bullet  in  it,  and  then  another.  He  heard  the  rattle 
of  pans,  and  wondered  if  his  skillet  would  be  any  good 
after  today. 

For  the  first  time  he  could  wipe  the  sweat  from  his 
face  and  stretch  himself.  And  also  he  could  think. 
Carrigan  possessed  an  unalterable  faith  in  the  infalli 
bility  of  the  mind.  "You  can  do  anything  with  the 
mind,"  was  his  code.  "It  is  better  than  a  good  gun." 


12  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

Now  that  he  was  physically  more  at  ease,  he  began 
reassembling  his  scattered  mental  faculties.  Who  was 
this  stranger  who  was  pot-shotting  at  him  with  such 
deadly  animosity  from  the  ambush  below?  Who 

Another  crash  of  lead  in  tinware  and  steel  put  an 
unpleasant  emphasis  to  the  question.  It  was  so  close 
to  his  head  that  it  made  him  wince,  and  now — with  a 
wide  area  within  reach  about  him — he  began  scraping 
up  the  sand  for  an  added  protection.  There  came  a 
long  silence  after  that  third  clatter  of  distress  from 
his  cooking  utensils.  To  David  Carrigan,  even  in  his 
hour  of  deadly  peril,  there  was  something  about  it  that 
for  an  instant  brought  back  the  glow  of  humor  in  his 
eyes.  It  was  hot,  swelteringly  hot,  in  that  packet  of 
sand  with  the  unclouded  sun  almost  straight  overhead. 
He  could  have  tossed  a  pebble  to  where  a  bright-eyed 
sandpiper  was  cocking  itself  backward  and  forward, 
its  jerky  movements  accompanied  by  friendly  little  tit 
tering  noises.  Everything  about  him  seemed  friendly. 
The  river  rippled  and  murmured  in  cooling  song  just 
beyond  the  sandpiper.  On  the  other  side  the  still  cooler 
forest  was  a  paradise  of  shade  and  contentment,  astir 
with  subdued  and  hidden  life.  It  was  nesting  season. 
He  heard  the  twitter  of  birds.  A  tiny,  brown  wood 
warbler  fluttered  out  to  the  end  of  a  silvery  birch 
limb,  and  it  seemed  to  David  that  its  throat  must  surely 
burst  with  the  burden  of  its  song.  The  little  fellow's 
brown  body,  scarcely  larger  than  a  butternut,  was  swell- 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  13 

ing  up  like  a  round  ball  in  his  effort  to  vanquish  all 
other  song. 

"Go  to  it,  old  man,"  chuckled  Carrigan.    "Go  to  it !" 

The  little  warbler,  that  he  might  have  crushed  be 
tween  thumb  and  forefinger,  gave  him  a  lot  of  courage. 

Then  the  tiny  chorister  stopped  for  breath.  In  that 
interval  Carrigan  listened  to  the  wrangling  of  two 
vivid-colored  Canada  jays  deeper  in  the  timber. 
Chronic  scolds  they  were,  never  without  a  grouch. 
They  were  like  some  people  Carrigan  had  known,  born 
pessimists,  always  finding  something  to  complain  about, 
even  in  their  love  days. 

And  these  were  love  days.  That  was  the  odd  thought 
that  came  to  Carrigan  as  he  lay  half  on  his  face,  his 
fingers  slowly  and  cautiously  working  a  loophole  be 
tween  his  shoulder-pack  and  the  rock.  They  were  love 
days  all  up  and  down  the  big  rivers,  where  men  and 
women  sang  for  joy,  and  children  played,  forgetful 
of  the  long,  hard  days  of  winter.  And  in  forest,  plain, 
and  swamp  was  this  spirit  of  love  also  triumphant  over 
the  land.  It  was  the  mating  season  of  all  feathered 
things.  In  countless  nests  were  the  peeps  and  twitters 
of  new  life;  mothers  of  first-born  were  teaching  their 
children  to  swim  and  fly;  from  end  to  end  of  the  forest 
world  the  little  children  of  the  silent  places,  furred  and 
feathered,  clawed  and  hoofed,  were  learning  the  ways 
of  life.  Nature's  yearly  birthday  was  half-way  gone, 
and  the  doors  of  nature's  school  wide  open.  And  the 
tiny  brown  songster  at  the  end  of  his  birch  twig  pro- 


14  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

claimed  the  joy  of  it  again,  and  challenged  all  the 
world  to  beat  him  in  his  adulation. 

Carrigan  found  that  he  could  peer  between  his  pack 
and  the  rock  to  where  the  other  warbler  was  singing — 
and  where  his  enemy  lay  watching  for  the  opportunity 
to  kill.  It  was  taking  a  chance.  If  a  movement  be 
trayed  his  loophole,  his  minutes  were  numbered.  But 
he  had  worked  cautiously,  an  inch  at  a  time,  and  was 
confident  that  the  beginning  of  his  effort  to  fight  back 
was,  up  to  the  present  moment,  undiscovered.  He  be 
lieved  that  he  knew  about  where  the  ambushed  man  was 
concealed.  In  the  edge  of  a  low-hanging  mass  of 
balsam  was  a  fallen  cedar.  From  behind  the  butt  of 
that  cedar  he  was  sure  the  shots  had  come. 

And  now,  even  more  cautiously  than  he  had  made 
the  tiny  opening,  he  began  to  work  the  muzzle  of  his 
rifle  through  the  loophole.  As  he  did  this  he  was 
thinking  of  Black  Roger  Audemard.  And  yet,  al 
most  as  quickly  as  suspicion  leaped  into  his  mind,  he 
told  himself  that  the  thing  was  impossible.  It  could 
not  be  Black  Roger,  or  one  of  Black  Roger's  friends, 
behind  the  cedar  log.  The  idea  was  inconceivable, 
when  he  considered  how  carefully  the  secret  of  his 
mission  had  been  kept  at  the  Landing.  He  had  not 
even  said  goodby  to  his  best  friends.  And  because 
Black  Roger  had  won  through  all  the  preceding  years, 
Carrigan  was  stalking  his  prey  out  of  uniform.  There 
had  been  nothing  to  betray  him.  Besides,  Black 
Roger  Audemard  must  be  at  least  a  thousand  miles 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  15 

north,  unless  something  had  tempted  him  to  come  up 
the  rivers  with  the  spring  brigades.  If  he  used  logic 
at  all,  there  was  but  one  conclusion  for  him  to  arrive 
at.  The  man  in  ambush  was  some  rascally  half-breed 
who  coveted  his  outfit  and  whatever  valuables  he  might 
have  about  his  person. 

A  fourth  smashing  eruption  among  his  comestibles 
and  culinary  possessions  came  to  drive  home  the  fact 
that  even  that  analysis  of  the  situation  was  absurd. 
Whoever  was  behind  the  rifle  fire  had  small  respect  for 
the  contents  of  his  pack,  and  he  was  surely  not  in 
grievous  need  of  a  good  gun  or  ammunition.  A  sticky 
mess  of  condensed  cream  was  running  over  Carrigan's 
hand.  He  doubted  if  there  was  a  whole  tin  in  his  kit. 

For  a  few  moments  he  lay  quietly  on  his  face  after 
the  fourth  shot.  His  eyes  were  turned  toward  the  river, 
and  on  the  far  side,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away,  three 
canoes  were  moving  swiftly  up  the  slow  current  of  the 
stream.  The  sunlight  flashed  on  their  wet  sides.  The 
gleam  of  dripping  paddles  was  like  the  flutter  of  silvery 
birds'  wings,  and  across  the  water  came  an  unintelli 
gible  shout  in  response  to  the  rifle  shot.  It  occurred 
to  David  that  he  might  make  a  trumpet  of  his  hands 
and  shout  back,  but  the  distance  was  too  great  for  his 
voice  to  carry  its  message  for  help.  Besides,  now  that 
he  had  the  added  protection  of  the  pack,  he  felt  a  cer 
tain  sense  of  humiliation  at  the  thought  of  showing 
the  white  feather.  A  few  minutes  more,  if  all  went 
well,  and  he  would  settle  for  the  man  behind  the  log. 


16  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

He  continued  again  the  slow  operation  of  worming 
his  rifle  barrel  between  the  pack  and  the  rock.  The 
near-sighted  little  sandpiper  had  discovered  him  and 
seemed  interested  in  the  operation.  It  had  come  a 
dozen  feet  nearer,  and  was  perking  its  head  and  see 
sawing  on  its  long  legs  as  it  watched  with  inquisitive 
inspection  the  unusual  manifestation  of  life  behind  the 
rock.  Its  twittering  note  had  changed  to  an  occa 
sional  sharp  and  querulous  cry.  Carrigan  wanted  to 
wring  its  neck.  That  cry  told  the  other  fellow  that 
he  was  still  alive  and  moving. 

It  seemed  an  age  before  his  rifle  was  through,  and 
every  moment  he  expected  another  shot.  He  flattened 
himself  out,  Indian  fashion,  and  sighted  along  the  bar 
rel.  He  was  positive  that  his  enemy  was  watching, 
yet  he  could  make  out  nothing  that  looked  like  a  head 
anywhere  along  the  log.  At  one  end  was  a  clump  of 
deeper  foliage.  He  was  sure  he  saw  a  sudden  slight 
movement  there,  and  in  the  thrill  of  the  moment  was 
tempted  to  send  a  bullet  into  the  heart  of  it.  But  he 
saved  his  cartridge.  He  felt  the  mighty  importance 
of  certainty.  If  he  fired  once — and  missed — the  ad 
vantage  of  his  unsuspected  loophole  would  be  gone. 
It  would  be  transformed  into  a  deadly  menace.  Even 
as  it  was,  if  his  enemy's  next  bullet  should  enter  that 
way 

He  felt  the  discomfort  of  the  thought,  and  in  spite 
of  himself  a  tremor  of  apprehension  ran  up  his  spine. 
He  felt  an  even  greater  desire  to  wring  the  neck  of  the 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  17 

inquisitive  little  sandpiper.  The  creature  had  circled 
round  squarely  in  front  of  him  and  stood  there  tilting 
its  tail  and  bobbing  its  head  as  if  its  one  insane  de 
sire  was  to  look  down  the  length  of  his  rifle  barrel. 
The  bird  was  giving  him  away.  If  the  other  fellow 
was  only  half  as  clever  as  his  marksmanship  was 

good 

Suddenly  every  nerve  in  Carrigan's  body  tightened. 
He  was  positive  that  he  had  caught  the  outline  of  a 
human  head  and  shoulders  in  the  foliage.  His  finger 
pressed  gently  against  the  trigger  of  his  Winchester. 
Before  he  breathed  again  he  would  have  fired.  But  a 
shot  from  the  foliage  beat  him  out  by  the  fraction  of 
a  second.  In  that  precious  time  lost,  his  enemy's  bul 
let  entered  the  edge  of  his  kit — and  came  through.  He 
felt  the  shock  of  it,  and  in  the  infinitesimal  space  be 
tween  the  physical  impact  and  the  mental  effect  of 
shock  his  brain  told  him  the  horrible  thing  had  hap 
pened.  It  was  his  head — his  face.  It  was  as  if  he  had 
plunged  them  suddenly  into  hot  water,  and  what  was 
left  of  his  skull  was  filled  with  the  rushing  and  roar 
ing  of  a  flood.  He  staggered  up,  clutching  his  face 
with  both  hands.  The  world  about  him  was  twisted 
and  black,  a  dizzily  revolving  thing — yet  his  still  fight 
ing  mental  vision  pictured  clearly  for  him  a  monstrous, 
bulging-eyed  sandpiper  as  big  as  a  house.  Then  he 
toppled  back  on  the  white  sand,  his  arms  flung  out 
limply,  his  face  turned  to  the  ambush  wherein  his 
murderer  lay. 


i8  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

His  body  was  clear  of  the  rock  and  the  pack,  but 
there  came  no  other  shot  from  the  thick  clump  of  bal 
sam.  Nor,  for  a  time,  was  there  movement.  The 
wood  warbler  was  cheeping  inquiringly  at  this  sudden 
change  in  the  deportment  of  his  friend  behind  the 
shoulder  of  shale.  The  sandpiper,  a  bit  startled,  had 
gone  back  to  the  edge  of  the  river  and  was  running 
a  race  with  himself  along  the  wet  sand.  And  the  two 
quarrelsome  jays  had  brought  their  family  squabble  to 
the  edge  of  the  timber. 

It  was  their  wrangling  that  roused  Carrigan  to  the 
fact  that  he  was  not  dead.  It  was  a  thrilling  discovery 
— that  and  the  fact  that  he  made  out  clearly  a  patch 
of  sunlight  in  the  sand.  He  did  not  move,  but  opened 
his  eyes  wider.  He  could  see  the  timber.  On  a  straight 
line  with  his  vision  was  the  thick  clump  of  balsam. 
And  as  he  looked,  the  boughs  parted  and  a  figure  came 
out.  Carrigan  drew  a  deep  breath.  He  found  that 
it  did  not  hurt  him.  He  gripped  the  fingers  of  the 
hand  that  was  under  his  body,  and  they  closed  on  the 
butt  of  his  service  automatic.  He  would  win  yet,  if 
God  gave  him  life  a  few  minutes  longer. 

His  enemy  advanced.  As  he  drew  nearer,  Carrigan 
closed  his  eyes  more  and  more.  They  must  be  shut, 
and  he  must  appear  as  if  dead,  when  the  other  came 
up.  Then,  when  the  scoundrel  put  down  his  gun,  as 
he  naturally  would — his  chance  would  be  at  hand.  If 
a  quiver  of  his  eyes  betrayed  him 

He  closed  them  tight.     Dizziness  began  to  creep 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  19 

over  him,  and  the  fire  in  his  brain  grew  hot  again.  He 
heard  footsteps,  and  they  stopped  in  the  sand  close  be 
side  him.  Then  he  heard  a  human  voice.  It  did  not 
speak  in  words,  but  gave  utterance  to  a  strange  and  un 
natural  cry.  With  a  mighty  effort  Carrigan  assembled 
his  last  strength.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  brought 
himself  up  quickly,  but  his  movement  was  slow,  pain 
ful — the  effort  of  a  man  who  might  be  dying. 
The  automatic  hung  limply  in  his  hand,  its  muzzle 
pointing  to  the  sand.  He  looked  up,  trying  to  swing 
into  action  that  mighty  weight  of  his  weapon.  And 
then  from  his  own  lips,  even  in  his  utter  physical  im 
potence,  fell  a  cry  of  wonder  and  amazement. 

His  enemy  stood  there  in  the  sunlight,  staring  down 
at  him  with  big,  dark  eyes  that  were  filled  with  horror. 
They  were  not  the  eyes  of  a  man.  David  Carrigan, 
in  this  most  astounding  moment  of  his  life,  found  him 
self  looking  up  into  the  face  of  a  woman. 


Ill 


¥7OR  a  matter  of  twenty  seconds — even  longer  it 
•*•  seemed  to  Carrigan — the  life  of  these  two  was 
expressed  in  a  vivid  and  unforgettable  tableau.  One 
half  of  it  David  saw — the  blue  sky,  the  dazzling  sun, 
the  girl  in  between.  The  pistol  dropped  from  his  limp 
hand,  and  the  weight  of  his  body  tottered  on  the  crook 
of  his  under-elbow.  Mentally  and  physically  he  was 
on  the  point  of  collapse,  and  yet  in  those  few  moments 
every  detail  of  the  picture  was  painted  with  a  brush 
of  fire  in  his  brain.  The  girl  was  bareheaded.  Her 
face  was  as  white  as  any  face  he  had  ever  seen,  living 
or  dead;  her  eyes  were  like  pools  that  had  caught  the 
reflection  of  fire;  he  saw  the  sheen  of  her  hair,  the  poise 
of  her  slender  body — its  shock,  stupefaction,  horror. 
He  sensed  these  things  even  as  his  brain  wobbled 
dizzily,  and  the  larger  part  of  the  picture  began  to  fade 
out  of  his  vision.  But  her  face  remained  to  the  last. 
It  grew  clearer,  like  a  cameo  framed  in  an  iris — a  beau 
tiful,  staring,  horrified  face  with  shimmering  tresses 
of  jet-black  hair  blowing  about  it  like  a  veil.  He  no 
ticed  the  hair,  that  was  partly  undone  as  if  she  had 
been  in  a  struggle  of  some  sort,  or  had  been  running 
fast  against  the  breeze  that  came  up  the  river, 

20 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  21 

He  fought  with  himself  to  hold  that  picture  of  her, 
to  utter  some  word,  make  some  movement.  But  the 
power  to  see  and  to  live  died  out  of  him.  He  sank  back 
with  a  queer  sound  in  his  throat.  He  did  not  hear  the 
answering  cry  from  the  girl  as  she  flung  herself,  with 
a  quick  little  prayer  for  help,  on  her  knees  in  the  soft, 
white  sand  beside  him.  He  felt  no  movement  when  she 
raised  his  head  in  her  arm  and  with  her  bare  hand 
brushed  back  his  sand-littered  hair,  revealing  where  the 
bullet  had  struck  him.  He  did  not  know  when  she  ran 
back  to  the  river. 

His  first  sensation  was  of  a  cool  and  comforting 
something  trickling  over  his  burning  temples  and  his 
face.  It  was  water.  Subconsciously  he  knew  that, 
and  in  the  same  way  he  began  to  think.  But  it  was 
hard  to  pull  his  thoughts  together.  They  persisted  in 
hopping  about,  like  a  lot  of  sand-fleas  in  a  dance,  and 
just  as  he  got  hold  of  one  and  reached  for  another,  the 
first  would  slip  away  from  him.  He  began  to  get  the 
best  of  them  after  a  time,  and  he  had  an  uncontrollable 
desire  to  say  something.  But  his  eyes  and  his  lips  were 
sealed  tight,  and  to  open  them,  a  little  army  of  gnomes 
came  out  of  the  darkness  in  the  back  of  his  head,  each 
of  them  armed  with  a  lever,  and  began  prying  with  all 
their  might.  After  that  came  the  beginning  of  light 
and  a  flash  of  consciousness. 

The  girl  was  working  over  him.  He  could  feel  her 
and  hear  her  movement.  Water  was  trickling  over  his 
face.  Then  he  heard  a  voice,  close  over  him,  saying 


22  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

something  in  a  sobbing  monotone  which  he  could  not 
understand. 

With  a  mighty  effor:  he  opened  his  eyes. 

"Thank  le  bon  Dieu,  you  live,  m'sieu,"  he  heard  the 
voice  say,  as  if  coming  from  a  long  distance  away. 
"You  live,  you  live " 

"Tryin'  to,"  he  mumbled  thickly,  feeling  suddenly  a 
sense  of  great  elation.  "Tryin' " 

He  wanted  to  curse  the  gnomes  for  deserting  him, 
for  as  soon  as  they  were  gone  with  their  levers,  his 
eyes  and  his  lips  shut  tight  again,  or  at  least  he  thought 
they  did.  But  he  began  to  sense  things  in  a  curious 
sort  of  way.  Some  one  was  dragging  him.  He  could 
feel  the  grind  of  sand  under  his  body.  There  were 
intervals  when  the  dragging  operation  paused.  And 
then,  after  a  long  time,  he  seemed  to  hear  more  than 
one  voice.  There  were  two — sometimes  a  murmur  of 
them.  And  odd  visions  came  to  him.  He  seemed  to  see 
the  girl  with  shining  black  hair  and  dark  eyes,  and  then 
swiftly  she  would  change  into  a  girl  with  hair  like 
blazing  gold.  This  was  a  different  girl.  She  was  not 
like  Pretty  Eyes,  as  his  twisted  mind  called  the  other. 
This  second  vision  that  he  saw  was  like  a  radiant  bit 
of  the  sun,  her  hair  all  aflame  with  the  fire  of  it  and 
her  face  a  different  sort  of  face.  He  was  always  glad 
when  she  went  away  and  Pretty  Eyes  came  back. 

To  David  Carrigan  this  interesting  experience  in 
his  life  might  have  covered  an  hour,  a  day,  or  a  month. 
Or  a  year  for  that  matter,  for  he  seemed  to  have  had 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  23 

an  indefinite  association  with  Pretty  Eyes.  He  had 
known  her  for  a  long  time  and  very  intimately,  it 
seemed.  Yet  he  had  no  memory  of  the  long  fight  in 
the  hot  sun,  or  of  the  river,  or  of  the  singing  warblers, 
or  of  the  inquisitive  sandpiper  that  had  marked  out 
the  line  which  his  enemy's  last  bullet  had  traveled.  He 
had  entered  into  a  new  world  in  which  everything  was 
vague  and  unreal  except  that  vision  of  dark  hair,  dark 
eyes,  and  pale,  beautiful  face.  Several  times  he  saw 
it  with  marvelous  clearness,  and  each  time  he  drifted 
away  into  darkness  again  with  the  sound  of  a  voice 
growing  fainter  and  fainter  in  his  ears. 

Then  came  a  time  of  utter  chaos  and  soundless  gloom. 
He  was  in  a  pit,  where  even  his  subconscious  self  was 
almost  dead  under  a  crushing  oppression.  At  last  a 
star  began  to  glimmer  in  this  pit,  a  star  pale  and  in 
distinct  and  a  vast  distance  away.  But  it  crept  steadily 
up  through  the  eternity  of  darkness,  and  the  nearer  it 
came,  the  less  there  was  of  the  blackness  of  night. 
From  a  star  it  grew  into  a  sun,  and  with  the  sun  came 
dawn.  In  that  dawn  he  heard  the  singing  of  a  bird, 
and  the  bird  was  just  over  his  head.  When  Carrigan 
opened  his  eyes,  and  understanding  came  to  him,  he 
found  himself  under  the  silver  birch  that  belonged  to 
the  wood  warbler. 

For  a  space  he  did  not  ask  himself  how  he  had  come 
there.  He  was  looking  at  the  river  and  the  white  strip 
of  sand.  Out  there  were  the  rock  and  his  dunnage 
pack.  Also  his  rifle.  Instinctively  his  eyes  turned  to 


24  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

the  balsam  ambush  farther  down.  That,  too,  was  in 
a  blaze  of  sunlight  now.  But  where  he  lay,  or  sat,  or 
stood — he  was  not  sure  what  he  was  doing  at  that 
moment — it  was  shady  and  deliciously  cool.  The 
green  of  the  cedar  and  spruce  and  balsam  was  close 
about  him,  inset  with  the  silver  and  gold  of  the  thickly- 
leaved  birch.  He  discovered  that  he  was  bolstered  up 
partly  against  the  trunk  of  this  birch  and  partly  against 
a  spruce  sapling.  Between  these  two,  where  his  head 
rested,  was  a  pile  of  soft  moss  freshly  torn  from  the 
earth.  And  within  reach  of  him  was  his  own  kit  pail 
filled  with  water. 

He  moved  himself  cautiously  and  raised  a  hand  to 
his  head.  His  fingers  came  in  contact  with  a  bandage. 

For  a  minute  or  two  after  that  he  sat  without  mov 
ing  while  his  amazed  senses  seized  upon  the  signifi 
cance  of  it  all.  In  the  first  place  he  was  alive.  But 
even  this  fact  of  living  was  less  remarkable  than  the 
other  things  that  had  happened.  He  remembered  the 
final  moments  of  the  unequal  duel.  His  enemy  had  got 
him.  And  that  enemy  was  a  woman !  Moreover,  after 
she  had  blown  away  a  part  of  his  head  and  had  him 
helpless  in  the  sand,  she  had — in  place  of  finishing 
him  there — dragged  him  to  this  cool  nook  and  tied  up 
his  wound.  It  was  hard  for  him  to  believe,  but  the  pail 
of  water,  the  moss  behind  his  shoulders,  the  bandage, 
and  certain  visions  that  were  reforming  themselves  in 
his  brain  convinced  him.  A  woman  had  shot  him.  She 
had  worked  like  the  very  devil  to  kill  him.  And  after- 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  25 

ward  she  had  saved  him!  He  grinned.  It  was  final 
proof  that  his  mind  hadn't  been  playing  tricks  on  him. 
No  one  but  a  woman  would  have  been  quite  so  un 
reasonable.  A  man  would  have  completed  the  job. 

He  began  to  look  for  her  up  and  down  the  white  strip 
of  sand.  And  in  looking  he  saw  the  gray  and  silver 
flash  of  the  hard-working  sandpiper.  He  chuckled, 
for  he  was  exceedingly  comfortable,  and  also  exhilarat- 
ingly  happy  to  know  that  the  thing  was  over  and  he 
was  not  dead.  If  the  sandpiper  had  been  a  man,  he 
would  have  called  him  up  to  shake  hands  with  him.  For 
if  it  hadn't  been  for  the  bird  getting  squarely  in  front 
of  him  and  giving  him  away,  there  might  have  been  a 
more  horrible  end  to  it  all.  He  shuddered  as  he  thought 
of  the  mighty  effort  he  had  made  to  fire  a  shot  into 
the  heart  of  the  balsam  ambush — and  perhaps  into  the 
heart  of  a  woman ! 

He  reached  for  the  pail  and  drank  deeply  of  the  wa 
ter  in  it.  He  felt  no  pain.  His  dizziness  was  gone. 
His  mind  had  grown  suddenly  clear  and  alert.  The 
warmth  of  the  water  told  him  almost  instantly  that  it 
had  been  taken  from  the  river  some  time  ago.  He  ob 
served  the  change  in  sun  and  shadows.  With  the  in 
stinct  of  a  man  trained  to  note  details,  he  pulled  out 
his  watch.  It  was  almost  six  o'clock.  More  than  three 
hours  had  passed  since  the  sandpiper  had  got  in  front 
of  his  gun. 

He  did  not  attempt  to  rise  to  his  feet,  but  scanned 
with  slower  and  more  careful  scrutiny  the  edge  of  the 


26  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

forest  and  the  river.  He  had  been  mystified  while 
cringing  for  his  life  behind  the  rock,  but  he  was  in 
finitely  more  so  now.  Greater  desire  he  had  never  had 
than  this  which  thrilled  him  in  these  present  minutes 
of  his  readjustment — desire  to  look  upon  the  woman 
again.  And  then,  all  at  once,  there  came  back  to  him 
a  mental  flash  of  the  other.  He  remembered,  as  if 
something  was  coming  back  to  him  out  of  a  dream, 
how  the  whimsical  twistings  of  his  sick  brain  had  made 
him  see  two  faces  instead  of  one.  Yet  he  knew  that 
the  first  picture  of  his  mysterious  assailant,  the  pic 
ture  painted  in  his  brain  when  he  had  tried  to  raise 
his  pistol,  was  the  right  one.  He  had  seen  her  dark 
eyes  aglow;  he  had  seen  the  sunlit  sheen  of  her  black 
hair  rippling  in  the  wind;  he  had  seen  the  white  pallor 
in  her  face,  the  slimness  of  Jier  as  she  stood  over  him 
in  horror — he  remembered  even  the  clutch  of  her  white 
hand  at  her  throat.  A  moment  before  she  had  tried  to 
kill  him.  And  then  he  had  looked  up  and  had  seen 
her  like  that!  It  must  have  been  some  unaccountable 
trick  in  his  brain  that  had  flooded  her  hair  with  golden 
fire  at  times. 

His  eyes  followed  a  furrow  in  the  white  sand  which 
led  from  where  he  sat  bolstered  against  the  tree  down  to 
his  pack  and  the  rock.  It  was  the  trail  made  by  his 
body  when  she  had  dragged  him  up  to  the  shelter  and 
coolness  of  the  timber.  One  of  his  laws  of  physical 
care  was  to  keep  himself  trained  down  to  a  hundred 
and  sixty,  but  he  wondered  how  she  had  dragged  up 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  27 

even  so  much  as  that  of  dead  weight.  It  had  taken  a 
great  deal  of  effort.  He  could  see  distinctly  three  dif 
ferent  places  in  the  sand  where  she  had  stopped  to  rest. 

Carrigan  had  earned  a  reputation  as  the  expert 
analyst  of  "N"  Division.  In  delicate  matters  it  was 
seldom  that  McVane  did  not  take  him  into  consulta 
tion.  He  possessed  an  almost  uncanny  grip  on  the 
working  processes  of  a  criminal  mind,  and  the  first  rule 
he  had  set  down  for  himself  was  to  regard  the  acts  of 
omission  rather  than  the  one  outstanding  act  of  com 
mission.  But  when  he  proved  to  himself  that  the  chief 
actor  in  a  drama  possessed  a  no/mal  rather  than  a 
criminal  mind,  he  found  himself  in  the  position  of 
checkmate.  It  was  a  thrilling  game.  And  he  was 
frankly  puzzled  now,  until — one  after  another — he 
added  up  the  sum  total  of  what  had  been  omitted  in 
this  instance  of  his  own  personal  adventure.  Hidden 
in  her  ambush,  the  woman  who  had  shot  him  had  been 
in  both  purpose  and  act  an  assassin.  Her  determina 
tion  had  been  to  kill  him.  She  had  disregarded  the 
white  flag  with  which  he  had  pleaded  for  mercy.  Her 
marksmanship  was  of  fiendish  cleverness.  Up  to  her 
last  shot  she  had  been,  to  all  intent  and  purpose,  a  mur 
deress. 

The  change  had  come  when  she  looked  down  upon 
him,  bleeding  and  helpless,  in  the  sand.  Undoubtedly 
she  had  thought  he  was  dying.  But  why,  when  she 
saw  his  eyes  open  a  little  later,  had  she  cried  out  her 
gratitude  to  God  ?  What  had  worked  the  sudden  trans- 


28  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

formation  in  her?  Why  had  she  labored  to  save  the 
life  she  had  so  atrociously  coveted  a  minute  before? 

If  his  assailant  had  been  a  man,  Carrigan  would  have 
found  an  answer.  For  he  was  not  robbed,  and  there 
fore  robbery  was  not  a  motif.  "A  case  of  mistaken 
identity,"  he  would  have  told  himself.  "An  error  in 
visual  judgment." 

But  the  fact  that  in  his  analysis  he  was  dealing  with 
a  woman  made  his  answer  only  partly  satisfying.  He 
could  not  disassociate  himself  from  her  eyes — their 
beauty,  their  horror,  the  way  they  had  looked  at  him. 
It  was  as  if  a  sudden  revulsion  had  come  over  her;  as 
if,  looking  down  upon  her  bleeding  handiwork,  the 
woman's  soul  in  her  had  revolted,  and  with  that  re 
vulsion  had  come  repentance — repentance  and  pity. 

"That,"  thought  Carrigan,  "would  be  just  like  a 
woman — and  especially  a  woman  with  eyes  like  hers." 

This  left  him  but  two  conclusions  to/choose  from. 
Either  there  had  been  a  mistake,  and  the  woman  had 
shown  both  horror  and  desire  to  amend  when  she  dis 
covered  it,  or  a  too  tender-hearted  agent  of  Black  Roger 
Audemard  had  waylaid  him  in  the  heart  of  the  white 
strip  of  sand. 

The  sun  was  another  hour  lower  in  the  sky  when 
Carrigan  assured  himself  in  a  series  of  cautious  ex 
periments  that  he  was  not  in  a  condition  to  stand  upon 
his  feet.  In  his  pack  were  a  number  of  things  he 
wanted — his  blankets,  for  instance,  a  steel  mirror,  and 
the  thermometer  in  his  medical  kit.  He  was  beginning 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  29 

to  feel  a  bit  anxious  about  himself.  There  were  sharp 
pains  back  of  his  eyes.  His  face  was  hot,  and  he  was 
developing  an  unhealthy  appetite  for  water.  It  was 
fever  and  he  knew  what  fever  meant  in  this  sort  of 
thing,  when  one  was  alone.  He  had  given  up  hope 
of  the  woman's  return.  It  was  not  reasonable  to  ex 
pect  her  to  come  back  after  her  furious  attempt  to  kill 
him.  She  had  bandaged  him,  bolstered  him  up,  placed 
water  beside  him,  and  had  then  left  him  to  work  out 
the  rest  of  his  salvation  alone.  But  why  the  deuce 
hadn't  she  brought  up  his  pack  ? 

On  his  hands  and  knees  he  began  to  work  himself 
toward  it  slowly.  He  found  that  the  movement  caused 
him  pain,  and  that  with  this  pain,  if  he  persisted  in 
movement,  there  was  a  synchronous  rise  of  nausea. 
The  two  seemed  to  work  in  a  sort  of  unity.  But  his 
medicine  case  was  important  now,  and  his  blankets,  and 
his  rifle  if  he  hoped  to  signal  help  that  might  chance 
to  pass  on  the  river.  A  foot  at  a  time,  a  yard  at  a 
time,  he  made  his  way  down  into  the  sand.  His  fingers 
dug  into  the  footprints  of  the  mysterious  gun- woman. 
He  approved  of  their  size.  They  were  small  and  nar 
row,  scarcely  longer  than  the  palm  and  fingers  of  his 
hand — and  they  were  made  by  shoes  instead  of  moc 
casins. 

It  seemed  an  interminable  time  to  him  before  he 
reached  his  pack.  When  he  got  there,  a  pendulum 
seemed  swinging  back  and  forth  inside  his  head,  beat 
ing  against  his  skull.  He  lay  down  with  his  pack  for 


30  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

a  pillow,  intending  to  rest  for  a  spell.  But  the  minutes 
added  themselves  one  on  top  of  another.  The  sun 
slipped  behind  clouds  banking  in  the  west.  It  grew 
cooler,  while  within  him  he  was  consumed  by  a  burn 
ing  thirst.  He  could  hear  the  ripple  of  running  water, 
the  laughter  of  it  among  pebbles  a  few  yards  away. 
And  the  river  itself  became  even  more  desirable  than 
his  medicine  case,  or  his  blankets,  or  his  rifle.  The 
song  of  it,  inviting  and  tempting  him,  blotted  thought 
of  the  other  things  out  of  his  mind.  And  he  continued 
his  journey,  the  swing  of  the  pendulum  in  his  head  be 
coming  harder,  but  the  sound  of  the  river  growing 
nearer.  At  last  he  came  to  the  wet  sand,  and  fell  on 
his  face,  and  drank. 

After  this  he  had  no  great  desire  to  go  back.  He 
rolled  himself  over,  so  that  his  face  was  turned  up  to 
the  sky.  Under  him  the  wet  sand  was  soft,  and  it  was 
comfortingly  cool.  The  fire  in  his  head  died  out.  He 
could  hear  new  sounds  in  the  edge  of  the  forest — 
evening  sounds.  Only  weak  little  twitters  came  from 
the  wood  warblers,  driven  to  silence  by  thickening 
gloom  in  the  densely  canopied  balsams  and  cedars,  and 
frightened  by  the  first  low  hoots  of  the  owls.  There 
was  a  crash  not  far  distant,  probably  a  porcupine  wad 
dling  through  brush  on  his  way  for  a  drink;  or  per 
haps  it  was  a  thirsty  deer,  or  a  bear  coming  out  in  the 
hope  of  finding  a  dead  fish.  Carrigan  loved  that  sort  of 
sound,  even  when  a  pendulum  was  beating  back  and 
forth  in  his  head.  It  was  like  medicine  to  him,  and 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  31 

he  lay  with  wide-open  eyes,  his  ears  picking  up  one 
after  another  the  voices  that  marked  the  change  from 
day  to  night.  He  heard  the  cry  of  a  loon,  its  softer, 
chuckling  note  of  honeymoon  days.  From  across  the 
river  came  a  cry  that  was  half  howl,  half  bark.  Car- 
rigan  knew  that  it  was  coyote,  and  not  wolf,  a  coyote 
whose  breed  had  wandered  hundreds  of  miles  north  of 
the  prairie  country. 

The  gloom  gathered  in,  and  yet  it  was  not  darkness 
as  the  darkness  of  night  is  known  a  thousand  miles 
south.  It  was  the  dusky  twilight  of  day  where  the  sun 
rises  at  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  and  still  throws 
its  ruddy  light  in  the  western  sky  at  nine  o'clock  at 
night;  where  the  poplar  buds  unfold  themselves  into 
leaf  before  one's  very  eyes;  where  strawberries  are 
green  in  the  morning  and  red  in  the  afternoon ;  where, 
a  little  later,  one  could  read  newspaper  print  until  mid 
night  by  the  glow  of  the  sun — and  between  the  rising 
and  the  setting  of  that  sun  there  would  be  from  eighteen 
to  twenty  hours  of  day.  It  was  evening  time  in  the 
wonderland  of  the  north,  a  wonderland  hard  and  frozen 
and  ridden  by  pain  and  death  in  winter,  but  a  paradise 
upon  earth  in  this  month  of  June. 

The  beauty  of  it  filled  Carrigan's  soul,  even  as  he  lay 
on  his  back  in  the  damp  sand.  Far  south  of  him  steam 
and  steel  were  coming,  and  the  world  would  soon  know 
that  it  was  easy  to  grow  wheat  at  the  Arctic  Circle,  that 
cucumbers  grew  to  half  the  size  of  a  man's  arm,  that 
flowers  smothered  the  land  and  berries  turned  it  scarlet 


32  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

and  black.  He  had  dreaded  these  days — days  of  what 
he  called  "the  great  discovery" — the  time  when  a 
crowded  civilization  would  at  last  understand  how  the 
fruits  of  the  earth  leaped  up  to  the  call  of  twenty  hours 
of  sun  each  day,  even  though  that  earth  itself  was 
eternally  frozen  if  one  went  down  under  its  surface 
four  feet  with  a  pick  and  shovel. 

Tonight  the  gloom  came  earlier  because  of  the  clouds 
in  the  west.  It  was  very  still.  Even  the  breeze  had 
ceased  to  come  from  up  the  river.  And  as  Carrigan 
listened,  exulting  in  the  thought  that  the  coolness  of 
the  wet  sand  was  drawing  the  fever  from  him,  he  heard 
another  sound.  At  first  he  thought  it  was  the  splash 
ing  of  a  fish.  But  after  that  it  came  again,  and  still 
again,  and  he  knew  that  it  was  the  steady  and  rhythmic 
dip  of  paddles. 

A  thrill  shot  through  him,  and  he  raised  himself  to 
his  elbow.  Dusk  covered  the  river,  and  he  could  not 
see.  But  he  heard  low  voices  as  the  paddles  dipped. 
And  after  a  little  he  knew  that  one  of  these  was  the 
voice  of  a  woman. 

His  heart  gave  a  big  jump.  "She  is  coming  back,'* 
he  whispered  to  himself.  "She  is  coming  back!" 


IV 


/^•ARRIGAN'S  first  impulse,  sudden  as  the  thrill 
^•^  that  leaped  through  him,  was  to  cry  out  to  the 

occupants  of  the  unseen  canoe.  Words  were  on  his 
lips,  but  he  forced  them  back.  They  could  not  miss 
him,  could  not  get  beyond  the  reach  of  his  voice — and 
he  waited.  After  all,  there  might  be  profit  in  a  reason 
able  degree  of  caution.  He  crept  back  toward  his  rifle, 
sensing  the  fact  that  movement  no  longer  gave  him  very 
great  distress.  At  the  same  time  he  lost  no  sound  from 
the  river.  The  voices  were  silent,  and  the  dip,  dip, 
dip  of  paddles  was  approaching  softly  and  with  extreme 
caution.  At  last  he  could  barely  hear  the  trickle  of 
them,  yet  he  knew  the  canoe  was  coming  steadily 
nearer.  There  was  a  suspicious  secretiveness  in  its 
approach.  Perhaps  the  lady  with  the  beautiful  eyes 
and  the  glistening  hair  had  changed  her  mind  again 
and  was  returning  to  put  an  end  to  him. 

The  thought  sharpened  his  vision.  He  saw  a  thin 
shadow  a  little  darker  than  the  gloom  of  the  river;  it 
grew  into  shape;  something  grated  lightly  upon  sand 
and  pebbles,  and  then  he  heard  the  guarded  plash  of 
feet  in  shallow  water  and  saw  some  one  pulling  the 
canoe  up  higher.  A  second  figure  .joined  the  first. 

33 


34  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

They  advanced  a  few  paces  and  stopped.  In  a  moment 
a  voice  called  softly, 

"M'sieu!     M'sieu  Carrigan!" 

There  was  an  anxious  note  in  the  voice,  but  Carrigan 
held  his  tongue.  And  then  he  heard  the  woman  say, 

"It  was  here,  Bateese !    I  am  sure  of  it !" 

There  was  more  than  anxiety  in  her  voice  now.  Her 
words  trembled  with  distress.  "Bateese — if  he  is  dead 
— he  is  up  there  close  to  the  trees." 

"But  he  isn't  dead,"  said  Carrigan,  raising  himself 
a  little.  "He  is  here,  behind  the  rock  again !" 

In  a  moment  she  had  run  to  where  he  was  lying,  his 
hand  clutching  the  cold  barrel  of  the  pistol  which  he 
had  found  in  the  sand,  his  white  face  looking  up  at 
her.  Again  he  found  himself  staring  into  the  glow  of 
her  eyes,  and  in  that  pale  light  which  precedes  the  com 
ing  of  stars  and  moon  the  fancy  struck  him  that  she 
was  lovelier  than  in  the  full  radiance  of  the  sun.  He 
heard  a  throbbing  note  in  her  throat.  And  then  she 
was  down  on  her  knees  at  his  side,  leaning  close  over 
him,  her  hands  groping  at  his  shoulders,  her  quick 
breath  betraying  how  swiftly  her  heart  was  beating. 

"You  are  not  hurt — badly?"  she  cried. 

"I  don't  know,"  replied  David.  "You  made  a  per 
fect  shot.  I  think  a  part  of  my  head  is  gone.  At  least 
you've  shot  away  my  balance,  because  I  can't  stand 
on  my  feet !" 

Her  hand  touched  his  face,  remaining  there  for  an 
instant,  and  the  palm  of  it  pressed  his  forehead.  It 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  35 

was  like  the  touch  of  cool  velvet,  he  thought.  Then 
she  called  to  the  man  named  Bateese.  He  made  Car- 
rigan  think  of  a  huge  chimpanzee  as  he  came  near,  be 
cause  of  the  shortness  of  his  body  and  the  length  of 
his  arms.  In  the  half  light  he  might  have  been  a  huge 
animal,  a  hulking  creature  of  some  sort  walking  up 
right.  Carrigan's  fingers  closed  more  tightly  on  the 
butt  of  his  automatic.  The  woman  began  to  talk 
swiftly  in  a  patois  of  French  and  Cree.  David  caught 
the  gist  of  it.  She  was  telling  Bateese  to  carry  him 
to  the  canoe,  and  to  be  very  careful,  because  m'sieu 
was  badly  hurt.  It  was  his  head,  she  emphasized. 
Bateese  must  be  careful  of  his  head. 

David  slipped  his  pistol  into  its  holster  as  Bateese 
bent  over  him.  He  tried  to  smile  at  the  woman  to  thank 
her  for  her  solicitude — after  having  nearly  killed  him. 
There  was  an  increasing  glow  in  the  night,  and  he  be 
gan  to  see  her  more  plainly.  Out  on  the  middle  of  the 
river  was  a  silvery  bar  of  light.  The  moon  was  com 
ing  up,  a  little  pale  as  yet,  but  triumphant  in  the  fact 
that  clouds  had  blotted  out  the  sun  an  hour  before  his 
time.  Between  this  bar  of  light  and  himself  he  saw  the 
head  of  Bateese.  It  was  a  wild,  savage-looking  head, 
bound  pirate-fashion  round  the  forehead  with  a  huge 
Hudson's  Bay  kerchief.  Bateese  might  have  been  old 
Jack  Ketch  himself  bending  over  to  give  the  final  twist 
to  a  victim's  neck.  His  long  arms  slipped  under 
David.  Gently  and  without  effort  he  raised  him  to  his 
feet.  And  then,  as  easily  as  he  might  have  lifted  a 


36  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

child,  he  trundled  him  up  in  his  arms  and  walked  off 
with  him  over  the  sand. 

Carrigan  had  not  expected  this.  He  was  a  little 
shocked  and  felt  also  the  impropriety  of  the  thing.  The 
idea  of  being  lugged  off  like  a  baby  was  embarrassing, 
even  in  the  presence  of  the  one  who  had  deliberately 
put  him  in  his  present  condition.  Bateese  did  the  thing 
with  such  beastly  ease.  It  was  as  if  he  was  no  more 
than  a  small  boy,  a  runt  with  no  weight  whatever,  and 
Bateese  was  a  man.  He  would  have  preferred  to 
stagger  along  on  his  own  feet  or  creep  on  his  hands 
and  knees,  and  he  grunted  as  much  to  Bateese  on  the 
way  to  the  canoe.  He  felt,  at  the  same  time,  that  the 
situation  owed  him  something  more  of  discussion  and 
explanation.  Even  now,  after  half  killing  him,  the 
woman  was  taking  a  rather  high-handed  advantage  of 
him.  She  might  at  least  have  assured  him  that  she  had 
made  a  mistake  and  was  sorry.  But  she  did  not  speak 
to  him  again.  She  said  nothing  more  to  Bateese,  and 
when  the  half-breed  deposited  him  in  the  midship  part 
of  the  canoe,  facing  the  bow,  she  stood  back  in  silence. 
Then  Bateese  brought  his  pack  and  rifle,  and  wedged 
the  pack  in  behind  him  so  that  he  could  sit  upright. 
After  that,  without  pausing  to  ask  permission,  he 
picked  up  the  woman  and  carried  her  through  the 
shallow  water  to  the  bow,  saving  her  the  wetting  of 
her  feet. 

As  she  turned  to  find  her  paddle  her  face  was  toward 
David,  and  for  a  moment  she  was  looking  at  him. 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  37 

"Do  you  mind  telling  me  who  you  are,  and  where 
we  are  going?"  he  asked. 

"I  am  Jeanne  Marie-Anne  Boulain,"  she  said.  "My 
brigade  is  down  the  river,  M'sieu  Carrigan." 

He  was  amazed  at  the  promptness  of  her  confession, 
for  as  one  of  the  working  factors  of  the  long  arm  of 
the  police  he  accepted  it  as  that.  He  had  scarcely  ex 
pected  her  to  divulge  her  name  after  the  cold-blooded 
way  in  which  she  had  attempted  to  kill  him.  And  she 
had  spoken  quite  calmly  of  "my  brigade."  He  had 
heard  of  the  Boulain  Brigade.  It  was  a  name  associ 
ated  with  Chipewyan,  as  he  remembered  it — or  Fort 
McMurray.  He  was  not  sure  just  where  the  Boulain 
scows  had  traded  freight  with  the  upper-river  craft. 
Until  this  year  he  was  positive  they  had  not  come  as 
far  south  as  Athabasca  Landing.  Boulain — Boulain — 
The  name  repeated  itself  over  and  over  in  his  mind. 
Bateese  shoved  off  the  canoe,  and  the  woman's  paddle 
dipped  in  and  out  of  the  water  beginning  to  shimmer 
in  moonlight.  But  he  could  not,  for  a  time,  get 
himself  beyond  the  pounding  of  that  name  in  his  brain. 
It  was  not  merely  that  he  had  heard  the  name  before. 
There  was  something  significant  about  it.  Something 
that  made  him  grope  back  in  his  memory  of  things. 
Boulain!  He  whispered  it  to  himself,  his  eyes  on  the 
slender  figure  of  the  woman  ahead  of  him,  swaying 
gently  to  the  steady  sweep  of  the  paddle  in  her  hands. 
Yet  he  could  think  of  nothing.  A  feeling  of  irritation 
swept  over  him,  disgust  at  his  own  mental  impotency. 


38  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

And  the  dizzying  sickness  was  brewing  in  his  head 
again. 

"I  have  heard  that  name — somewhere — before,"  he 
said.  There  was  a  space  of  only  five  or  six  feet  be 
tween  them,  and  he  spoke  with  studied  distinctness. 

"Possibly  you  have,  m'sieu." 

Her  voice  was  exquisite,  clear  as  the  note  of  a  bird, 
yet  so  soft  and  low  that  she  seemed  scarcely  to  have 
spoken.  And  it  was,  Carrigan  thought,  criminally 
evasive — under  the  circumstances.  He  wanted  her  to 
turn  round  and  say  something.  He  wanted,  first  of 
all,  to  ask  her  why  she  had  tried  to  kill  him.  It  was 
his  right  to  demand  an  explanation.  And  it  was  his 
duty  to  get  her  back  to  the  Landing,  where  the  law 
would  ask  an  accounting  of  her.  She  must  know  that. 
There  was  only  one  way  in  which  she  could  have 
learned  his  name,  and  that  was  by  prying  into  his 
identification  papers  while  he  was  unconscious.  There 
fore  she  not  only  knew  his  name,  but  also  that  he  was 
Sergeant  Carrigan  of  the  Royal  Northwest  Mounted 
Police.  In  spite  of  all  this  she  was  apparently  not  very 
deeply  concerned.  She  was  not  frightened,  and  she 
did  not  appear  to  be  even  slightly  excited. 

He  leaned  nearer  to  her,  the  movement  sending  a 
sharp  pain  between  his  eyes.  It  almost  drew  a  cry 
from  him,  but  he  forced  himself  to  speak  without  be 
traying  it. 

"You  tried  to  murder  me — and  almost  succeeded. 
Haven't  you  anything  to  say  ?" 

"Not  now,  m'sieu — except  that  it  was  a  mistake, 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  39 

and  I  am  sorry.  But  you  must  not  talk.  You  must 
remain  quiet.  I  am  afraid  your  skull  is  fractured." 

Afraid  his  skull  was  fractured !  And  she  expressed 
her  fear  in  the  casual  way  she  might  have  spoken  of 
a  toothache.  He  leaned  back  against  his  dunnage  sack 
and  closed  his  eyes.  Probably  she  was  right.  These 
fits  of  dizziness  and  nausea  were  suspicious.  They 
made  him  top-heavy  and  filled  him  with  a  desire  to 
crumple  up  somewhere.  He  was  clear-mindedly  con 
scious  of  this  and  of  his  fight  against  the  weakness. 
But  in  those  moments  when  he  felt  better  and  his  head 
was  clear  of  pain,  he  had  not  seriously  thought  of  a 
fractured  skull.  If  she  believed  it,  why  did  she  not 
treat  him  a  bit  more  considerately  ?  Bateese,  with  that 
strength  of  an  ox  in  his  arms,  had  no  use  for  her 
assistance  with  the  paddle.  She  might  at  least  have  sat 
facing  him,  even  if  she  refused  to  explain  matters  more 
definitely. 

A  mistake,  she  called  it.  And  she  was  sorry  for 
him!  She  had  made  those  statements  in  a  matter-of- 
fact  way,  but  with  a  voice  that  was  like  music.  She  had 
spoken  perfect  English,  but  in  her  words  were  the  in 
flection  and  velvety  softness  of  the  French  blood  which 
must  be  running  red  in  her  veins.  And  her  name  was 
Jeanne  Marie-Anne  Boulain! 

With  eyes  closed,  Carrigan  called  himself  an  idiot 
for  thinking  of  these  things  at  the  present  time.  Pri 
marily  he  was  a  man-hunter  out  on  important  duty,  and 
here  was  duty  right  at  hand,  a  thousand  miles  south 
of  Black  Roger  Audemard,  the  wholesale  murderer  he 


40  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

was  after.  He  would  have  sworn  on  his  life  that  Black 
Roger  had  never  gone  at  a  killing  more  deliberately 
than  this  same  Jeanne  Marie-Anne  Boulain  had  gone 
after  him  behind  the  rock ! 

Now  that  it  was  all  over,  and  he  was  alive,  she  was 
taking  him  somewhere  as  coolly  and  as  unexcitedly 
as  though  they  were  returning  from  a  picnic.  Carri- 
gan  shut  his  eyes  tighter  and  wondered  if  he  was  think 
ing  straight.  He  believed  he  was  badly  hurt,  but  he 
was  as  strongly  convinced  that  his  mind  was  clear. 
And  he  lay  quietly  with  his  head  against  the  pack,  his 
eyes  closed,  waiting  for  the  coolness  of  the  river  to 
drive  his  nausea  away  again. 

He  sensed  rather  than  felt  the  swift  movement  of 
the  canoe.  There  was  no  perceptible  tremor  to  its 
progress.  The  current  and  a  perfect  craftsmanship 
with  the  paddles  were  carrying  it  along  at  six  or  seven 
miles  an  hour.  He  heard  the  rippling  of  water  that  at 
times  was  almost  like  the  tinkling  of  tiny  bells,  and 
more  and  more  bell-like  became  that  sound  as  he  lis 
tened  to  it.  It  struck  a  certain  note  for  him.  And  to 
that  note  another  added  itself,  until  in  the  purling 
rhythm  of  the  river  he  caught  the  murmuring  mono 
tone  of  a  name  Boulain — Boulain — Boulain.  The  name 
became  an  obsession.  It  meant  something.  And  he 
knew  what  it  meant — if  he  could  only  whip  his  mem 
ory  back  into  harness  again.  But  that  was  impossible 
now.  When  he  tried  to  concentrate  his  mental  fec- 
alties,  his  head  ached  terrifically. 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  41 

He  dipped  his  hand  into  the  water  and  held  it  over 
his  eyes.  For  half  an  hour  after  that  he  did  not  raise 
his  head.  In  that  time  not  a  word  was  spoken  by 
Bateese  or  Jeanne  Marie-Anne  Boulain.  For  the  for 
est  people  it  was  not  an  hour  in  which  to  talk.  The 
moon  had  risen  swiftly,  and  the  stars  were  out.  Where 
there  had  been  gloom,  the  world  was  now  a  flood  of 
gold  and  silver  light.  At  first  Carrigan  allowed  this 
to  filter  between  his  fingers;  then  he  opened  his  eyes. 
He  felt  more  evenly  balanced  again. 

Straight  in  front  of  him  was  Jeanne  Marie- Anne 
Boulain.  The  curtain  of  dusk  had  risen  from  between 
them,  and  she  was  full  in  the  radiance  of  the  moon. 
She  was  no  longer  paddling,  but  was  looking  straight 
ahead.  To  Carrigan  her  figure  was  exquisitely  girlish 
as  he  saw  it  now.  She  was  bareheaded,  as  he  had  seen 
her  first,  and  her  hair  hung  down  her  back  like  a  shim 
mering  mass  of  velvety  sable  in  the  star-and-moon 
glow.  Something  told  Carrigan  she  was  going  to  turn 
her  face  in  his  direction,  and  he  dropped  his  hand  over 
his  eyes  again,  leaving  a  space  between  the  fingers.  He 
was  right  in  his  guess.  She  fronted  the  moon,  look 
ing  at  him  closely — rather  anxiously,  he  thought.  She 
even  leaned  a  little  toward  him  that  she  might  see  more 
clearly.  Then  she  turned  and  resumed  her  paddling. 

Carrigan  was  a  bit  elated.  Probably  she  had  looked 
at  him  a  number  of  times  like  that  during  the  past  half- 
hour.  And  she  was  disturbed.  She  was  worrying 
about  him.  The  thought  of  being  a  murderess  was  be- 


42  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

ginning  to  frighten  her.  In  spite  of  the  beauty  of  her 
eyes  and  hair  and  the  slim  witchery  of  her  body  he  had 
no  sympathy  for  her.  He  told  himself  that  he  would 
give  a  year  of  his  life  to  have  her  down  at  Barracks 
this  minute.  He  would  never  forget  that  three-quarters 
of  an  hour  behind  the  rock,  not  if  he  lived  to  be  a  hun 
dred.  And  if  he  did  live,  she  was  going  to  pay,  even 
if  she  was  lovelier  than  Venus  and  all  the  Graces 
combined.  He  felt  irritated  with  himself  that  he  should 
have  observed  in  such  a  silly  way  the  sable  glow  of 
her  hair  in  the  moonlight.  And  her  eyes.  What  the 
deuce  did  prettiness  matter  in  the  present  situation? 
The  sister  of  Fanchet,  the  mail  robber,  was  beautiful, 
but  her  beauty  had  failed  to  save  Fanchet.  The  Law 
had  taken  him  in  spite  of  the  tears  in  Carmin  Fanchet's 
big  black  eyes,  and  in  that  particular  instance  he  was 
the  Law.  And  Carmin  Fanchet  was  pretty — deucedly 
pretty.  Even  the  Old  Man's  heart  had  been  stirred  by 
her  loveliness. 

"A  shame !"  he  had  said  to  Carrigan.    "A  shame !" 
But  the  rascally  Fanchet  was  hung  by  the  neck  until 
he  was  dead. 

Carrigan  drew  himself  up  slowly  until  he  was  sitting 
erect.  He  wondered  what  Jeanne  Marie-Anne  Boulain 
would  say  if  he  told  her  about  Carmin.  But  there  was 
a  big  gulf  between  the  names  Fanchet  and  Boulain. 
The  Fanchets  had  come  from  the  dance  halls  of  Alaska, 
They  were  bad,  both  of  them.  At  least,  so  they  had 
judged  Carmin  Fanchet — along  with  her  brother.  And 
Boulain 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  43 

His  hand,  in  dropping  to  his  side,  fell  upon  the  butt 
of  his  pistol.  Neither  Bateese  nor  the  girl  had  thought 
of  disarming  him.  It  was  careless  of  them,  unless 
Bateese  was  keeping  a  good  eye  on  him  from  behind. 

A  new  sort  of  thrill  crept  into  Carrigan's  blood.  He 
began  to  see  where  he  had  made  a  huge  error  in  not 
playing  his  part  more  cleverly.  It  was  this  girl  Jeanne 
who  had  shot  him.  It  was  Jeanne  who  had  stood  over 
him  in  that  last  moment  when  he  had  made  an  effort 
to  use  his  pistol.  It  was  she  who  had  tried  to  murder 
him  and  who  had  turned  faint-hearted  when  it  came  to 
finishing  the  job.  But  his  knowledge  of  these  things 
he  should  have  kept  from  her.  Then,  when  the  proper 
moment  came,  he  would  have  been  in  a  position  to  act. 
Even  now  it  might  be  possible  to  cover  his  blunder. 
He  leaned  toward  her  again,  determined  to  make  the 
effort. 

"I  want  to  ask  your  pardon,"  he  said.    "May  I  ?" 

His  voice  startled  her.  It  was  as  if  the  stinging  tip 
of  a  whip-lash  had  touched  her  bare  neck.  He  was 
smiling  when  she  turned.  In  her  face  and  eyes  was  a 
relief  which  she  made  no  effort  to  repress. 

"You  thought  I  might  be  dead,"  he  laughed  softly. 
"I'm  not,  Miss  Jeanne.  I'm  very  much  alive  again. 
It  was  that  accursed  fever — and  I  want  to  ask  your 
pardon!  I  think — I  know — that  I  accused  you  of 
shooting  me.  It's  impossible.  I  couldn't  think  of  it — 
in  my  clear  mind.  I  am  quite  sure  that  I  know  the 
rascally  half-breed  who  pot-shotted  me  like  that.  And 
it  was  you  who  came  in  time,  and  frightened  him  away, 


44  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

and  saved  my  life.    Will  you  forgive  me — and  accept 
my  gratitude?" 

There  came  into  the  glowing  eyes  of  the  girl  a  re 
flection  of  his  own  smile.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  saw 
the  corners  of  her  mouth  tremble  a  little  before  she 
answered  him. 

"I  am  glad  you  are  feeling  better,  m'sieu." 

"And  you  will  forgive  me  for — for  saying  such 
beastly  things  to  you?" 

She  was  lovely  when  she  smiled,  and  she  was  smil 
ing  at  him  now.  "If  you  want  to  be  forgiven  for  lying, 
yes,"  she  said.  "I  forgive  you  that,  because  it  is  some 
times  your  business  to  lie.  It  was  I  who  tried  to  kill 
you,  m'sieu.  And  you  know  it." 

"But " 

"You  must  not  talk,  m'sieu.  It  is  not  good  for  you : 
Bateese,  will  you  tell  m'sieu  not  to  talk  ?" 

Carrigan  heard  a  movement  behind  him. 

"M'sieu,  you  will  stop  ze  talk  or  I  brak  hees  head  wit' 
ze  paddle  in  my  han' !"  came  the  voice  of  Bateese  close 
to  his  shoulder.  "Do  I  mak'  ze  word  plain  so  m'sieu 
compren'  ?" 

"I  get  you,  old  man,"  grunted  Carrigan.  "I  get  you 
—both!" 

And  he  leaned  back  against  his  dunnage-sack,  star 
ing  again  at  the  witching  slimness  of  the  lovely  Jeanne 
Marie-Anne  Boulain  as  she  calmly  resumed  her  pad 
dling  in  the  bow  of  the  canoe. 


V 


TN  the  few  minutes  following  the  efficient  and  un- 
•••  expected  warning  of  Bateese  an  entirely  new  ele 
ment  of  interest  entered  into  the  situation  for  David 
Carrigan.  He  had  more  than  once  assured  himself  that 
he  had  made  a  success  of  his  profession  of  man-hunt 
ing  not  because  he  was  brighter  than  the  other  fellow, 
but  largely  because  he  possessed  a  sense  of  humor  and 
no  vanities  to  prick.  He  was  in  the  game  because  he 
loved  the  adventure  of  it.  He  was  loyal  to  his  duty, 
but  he  was  not  a  worshipper  of  the  law,  nor  did  he 
covet  the  small  monthly  stipend  of  dollars  and  cents 
that  came  of  his  allegiance  to  it.  As  a  member  of  the 
Scarlet  Police,  and  especially  of  "N"  Division,  he  felt 
the  pulse  and  thrill  of  life  as  he  loved  to  live  it.  And 
the  greatest  of  all  thrills  came  when  he  was  after  a 
man  as  clever  as  himself,  or  cleverer. 

This  time  it  was  a  woman — or  a  girl !  He  had  not 
yet  made  up  his  mind  which  she  was.  Her  voice, 
low  and  musical,  her  poise,  and  the  tranquil  and 
unexcitable  loveliness  of  her  face  had  made  him,  at  first, 
register  her  as  a  woman.  Yet  as  he  looked  at  the  slim 
girlishness  of  her  figure  in  the  bow  of  the  canoe,  ac 
centuated  by  the  soft  sheen  of  her  partly  unbraided 

45 


46  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

hair,  he  wondered  if  she  were  eighteen  or  thirty.  It 
would  take  the  clear  light  of  day  to  tell  him.  But 
whether  a  girl  or  a  woman,  she  had  handled  him  so 
cleverly  that  the  unpleasantness  of  his  earlier  experi 
ence  began  to  give  way  slowly  to  an  admiration  for  her 
capability. 

He  wondered  what  the  superintendent  of  "N"  Di 
vision  would  say  if  he  could  see  Black  Roger  Aude- 
mard's  latest  trailer  propped  up  here  in  the  center  of 
the  canoe,  the  prisoner  of  a  velvety-haired  but  danger 
ously  efficient  bit  of  feminine  loveliness — and  a  bull- 
necked,  chimpanzee-armed  half-breed! 

Bateese  had  confirmed  the  suspicion  that  he  was  a 
prisoner,  even  though  this  mysterious  pair  were  bent 
on  saving  his  life.  Why  it  was  their  desire  to  keep  life 
in  him  when  only  a  few  hours  ago  one  of  them  had 
tried  to  kill  him  was  a  question  which  only  the  future 
could  answer.  He  did  not  bother  himself  with  that 
problem  now.  The  present  was  altogether  too  inter 
esting,  and  there  was  but  little  doubt  that  other  develop 
ments  equally  important  were  close  at  hand.  The 
attitude  of  both  Jeanne  Marie-Anne  Boulain  and  her 
piratical-looking  henchman  was  sufficient  evidence  of 
that.  Bateese  had  threatened  to  knock  his  head  off, 
and  he  could  have  sworn  that  the  girl — or  woman — 
had  smiled  her  approbation  of  the  threat.  Yet  he  held 
no  grudge  against  Bateese.  An  odd  sort  of  liking 
for  the  man  began  to  possess  him,  just  as  he  found  him 
self  powerless  to  resist  an  ingrowing  admiration  for 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  47 

Marie- Anne.  The  existence  of  Black  Roger  Audemard 
became  with  him  a  sort  of  indefinite  reality.  Black 
Roger  was  a  long  way  off.  Marie-Anne  and  Bateese 
were  very  near.  He  began  thinking  of  her  as  Marie- 
Anne.  He  liked  the  name.  It  was  the  Boulain  part  of 
it  that  worked  in  him  with  an  irritating  insistence. 

For  the  first  time  since  the  canoe  journey  had  begun, 
he  looked  beyond  the  darkly  glowing  head  and  the 
slender  figure  in  the  bow.  It  was  a  splendid  night. 
Ahead  of  him  the  river  was  like  a  rippling  sheet  of 
molten  silver.  On  both  sides,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  apart, 
rose  the  walls  of  the  forest,  like  low-hung,  oriental 
tapestries.  The  sky  seemed  near,  loaded  with  stars, 
and  the  moon,  rising  with  almost  perceptible  movement 
toward  the  zenith,  had  changed  from  red  to  a  mellow 
gold.  Carrigan's  soul  always  rose  to  this  glory  of  the 
northern  light.  Youth  and  vigor,  he  told  himself,  must 
always  exist  under  those  unpolluted  lights  of  the  upper 
worlds,  the  unspeaking  things  which  had  told  him  more 
than  he  had  ever  learned  from  the  mouths  of  other 
men.  They  stood  for  his  religion,  his  faith,  his  be 
lief  in  the  existence  of  things  greater  than  the  insig 
nificant  spark  which  animated  his  own  body.  He  ap 
preciated  them  most  when  there  was  stillness.  And  to 
night  it  was  still.  It  was  so  quiet  that  the  trickling  of 
the  paddles  was  like  subdued  music.  From  the  forest 
there  came  no  sound.  Yet  he  knew  there  was  life 
there,  wide-eyed,  questing  life,  life  that  moved  on 
velvety  wing  and  padded  foot,  just  as  he  and  Marie- 


48  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

Anne  and  the  half-breed  Bateese  were  moving  in  the 
canoe.  To  have  called  out  in  this  hour  would  have 
taken  an  effort,  for  a  supreme  and  invisible  Hand 
seemed  to  have  commanded  stillness  upon  the  earth. 

And  then  there  came  droning  upon  his  ears  a  break 
in  the  stillness,  and  as  he  listened,  the  shores  closed 
slowly  in,  narrowing  the  channel  until  he  saw  giant 
masses  of  gray  rock  replacing  the  thick  verdure  of 
balsam,  spruce,  and  cedar.  The  moaning  grew  louder, 
and  the  rocks  climbed  skyward  until  they  hung  in  great 
cliffs.  There  could  be  but  one  meaning  to  this  sudden 
change.  They  were  close  to  le  Saint-Esprit  Rapid? — 
the  Holy  Ghost  Rapids.  Carrigan  was  astonished. 
That  day  at  noon  he  had  believed  the  Holy  Ghost  to 
be  twenty  or  thirty  miles  below  him.  Now  they  were 
at  its  mouth,  and  he  saw  that  Bateese  and  Jeanne 
Marie-Anne  Boulain  were  quietly  and  unexcitedly  pre 
paring  to  run  that  vicious  stretch  of  water.  Uncon 
sciously  he  gripped  the  gunwales  of  the  canoe  with  both 
hands  as  the  sound  of  the  rapids  grew  into  low  and 
sullen  thunder.  In  the  moonlight  ahead  he  could  see 
the  rock  walls  closing  in  until  the  channel  was  crushed 
between  two  precipitous  ramparts,  and  the  moon 
and  stars,  sending  their  glow  between  those  walls, 
lighted  up  a  frothing  path  of  water  that  made  Carrigan 
hold  his  breath.  He  would  have  portaged  this  place 
even  in  broad  day. 

He  looked  at  the  girl  in  the  bow.  The  slender  figure 
was  a  little  more  erect,  the  glowing  head  held  a  little 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  49 

higher.  In  those  moments  he  would  have  liked  to  see 
her  face,  the  wonderful  something  that  must  be  in  her 
eyes  as  she  rode  fearlessly  into  the  teeth  of  the  menace 
ahead.  For  he  could  see  that  she  was  not  afraid,  that 
she  was  facing  this  thing  with  a  sort  of  exultation,  that 
there  was  something  about  it  which  thrilled  her  until 
every  drop  of  blood  in  her  body  was  racing  with  the 
impetus  of  the  stream  itself.  Eddies  of  wind  puffing 
out  from  between  the  chasm  walls  tossed  her  loose  hair 
about  her  back  in  a  glistening  veil.  He  saw  a  long 
strand  of  it  trailing  over  the  edge  of  the  canoe  into  the 
water.  It  made  him  shiver,  and  he  wanted  to  cry  out 
to  Bateese  that  he  was  a  fool  for  risking  her  life  like 
this.  He  forgot  that  he  was  the  one  helpless  individual 
in  the  canoe,  and  that  an  upset  would  mean  the  end  for 
him,  while  Bateese  and  his  companion  might  still  fight 
on.  His  thought  and  his  vision  were  focused  on  the 
girl — and  what  lay  straight  ahead.  A  mass  of  froth, 
like  a  windrow  of  snow,  rose  up  before  them,  and  the 
canoe  plunged  into  it  with  the  swiftness  of  a  shot.  It 
spattered  in  his  face,  and  blinded  him  for  an  instant. 
Then  they  were  out  of  it,  and  he  fancied  he  heard  a  note 
of  laughter  from  the  girl  in  the  bow.  In  the  next 
breath  he  called  himself  a  fool  for  imagining  that.  For 
the  run  was  dead  ahead,  and  the  girl  became  vibrant 
with  life,  her  paddle  flashing  in  and  out,  while  from 
her  lips  came  sharp,  clear  cries  which  brought  from 
Bateese  frog-like  bellows  of  response.  The  walls  shot 
past ;  inundations  rose  and  plunged  under  them ;  black 


50  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

rocks  whipped  with  caps  of  foam  raced  up-stream  with 
the  speed  of  living  things ;  the  roar  became  a  drowning 
voice,  and  then — as  if  outreached  by  the  wings  of 
a  swifter  thing — dropped  suddenly  behind  them. 
Smoother  water  lay  ahead.  The  channel  broadened. 
Moonlight  rilled  it  with  a  clearer  radiance,  and  Carri- 
gan  saw  the  girl's  hair  glistening  wet,  and  her  arms 
dripping. 

For  the  first  time  he  turned  about  and  faced  Bateese. 
The  half-breed  was  grinning  like  a  Cheshire  cat ! 

"You're  a  confoundedly  queer  pair!"  grunted  Carri- 
gan,  and  he  turned  about  again  to  find  Jeanne  Marie- 
Anne  Boulain  as  unconcerned  as  though  running  the 
Holy  Ghost  Rapids  in  the  glow  of  the  moon  was 
nothing  more  than  a  matter  of  play. 

It  was  impossible  for  him  to  keep  his  heart  from 
beating  a  little  faster  as  he  watched  her,  even  though 
he  was  trying  to  regard  her  in  a  most  professional  sort 
of  way.  Pie  reminded  himself  that  she  was  an  iniqui 
tous  little  Jezebel  who  had  almost  murdered  him.  Car- 
min  Fanchet  had  been  like  her,  an  ante  damnee — a 
fallen  angel — but  his  business  was  not  sympathy  in  such 
matters  as  these.  At  the  same  time  he  could  not  resist 
the  lure  of  both  her  audacity  and  her  courage,  and  he 
found  himself  all  at  once  asking  himself  the  amazing 
question  as  to  what  her  relationship  might  be  to 
Bateese.  It  occurred  to  him  rather  unpleasantly  that 
there  had  been  something  distinctly  proprietary  in  the 
way  the  half-breed  had  picked  her  up  on  the  sand,  and 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  51 

that  Bateese  had  shown  no  hesitation  a  little  later  in 
threatening  to  knock  his  head  off  unless  he  stopped 
talking  to  her.  He  wondered  if  Bateese  was  a  Boulain. 

The  two  or  three  minutes  of  excitement  in  the  boil 
ing  waters  of  the  Holy  Ghost  had  acted  like  medi 
cine  on  Carrigan.  It  seemed  to  him  that  something  had 
given  way  in  his  head,  relieving  him  of  an  oppression 
that  had  been  like  an  iron  hoop  drawn  tightly  about  his 
skull.  He  did  not  want  Bateese  to  suspect  this  change 
in  him,  and  he  slouched  lower  against  the  dunnage- 
pack  with  his  eyes  still  on  the  girl.  He  was  finding  it 
increasingly  difficult  to  keep  from  looking  at  her.  She 
had  resumed  her  paddling,  and  Bateese  was  putting 
mighty  efforts  in  his  strokes  now,  so  that  the  narrow, 
birchbark  canoe  shot  like  an  arrow  with  the  down- 
sweeping  current  of  the  river.  A  few  hundred  yards 
below  was  a  twist  in  the  channel,  and  as  the  canoe 
rounded  this,  taking  the  shoreward  curve  with  dizzy 
ing  swiftness,  a  wide,  still  straight-water  lay  ahead. 
And  far  down  this  Carrigan  saw  the  glow  of  fires. 

The  forest  had  drawn  back  from  the  river,  leaving 
in  its  place  a  broken  tundra  of  rock  and  shale  and  a 
wide  strip  of  black  sand  along  the  edge  of  the  stream 
itself.  Carrigan  knew  what  it  was — an  upheaval  of 
the  tar-sand  country  so  common  still  farther  north, 
the  beginning  of  that  treasure  of  the  earth  which  would 
some  day  make  the  top  of  the  American  continent  one 
of  the  Eldorados  of  the  world.  The  fires  drew  nearer, 
and  suddenly  the  still  night  was  broken  by  the  wild 


52  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

chanting  of  men.  David  heard  behind  him  a  choking 
note  in  the  throat  of  Bateese.  A  soft  word  came  from 
the  lips  of  the  girl,  and  it  seemed  to  Carrigan  that  her 
head  was  held  higher  in  the  moon  glow.  The  chant 
increased  in  volume,  a  rhythmic,  throbbing,  savage 
music  that  for  a  hundred  and  fifty  years  had  come  from 
the  throats  of  men  along  the  Three  Rivers.  It  thrilled 
Carrigan  as  they  bore  down  upon  it.  It  was  not  song 
as  civilization  would  have  counted  song.  It  was  like 
an  explosion,  an  exultation  of  human  voice  unchained, 
ebullient  with  the  love  of  life,  savage  in  its  good-humor. 
It  was  le  gcdte  de  coeur  of  the  rivermen,  who  thought 
and  sang  as  their  forefathers  did  in  the  days  of  Radis- 
son  and  good  Prince  Rupert;  it  was  their  merriment, 
their  exhilaration,  their  freedom  and  optimism,  reach 
ing  up  to  the  farthest  stars.  In  that  song  men  were 
straining  their  vocal  muscles,  shouting  to  beat  out  their 
nearest  neighbor,  bellowing  like  bulls  in  a  frenzy  of 
sudden  fun.  And  then,  as  suddenly  as  it  had  risen  in 
the  night,  the  clamor  of  voices  died  away.  A  single 
shout  came  up  the  river.  Carrigan  thought  he  heard 
a  low  rumble  of  laughter.  A  tin  pan  banged  against 
another.  A  dog  howled.  The  flat  of  an  oar  played  a 
tattoo  for  a  moment  en  the  bottom  of  a  boat.  Then 
one  last  yell  from  a  single  throat — and  the  night  was 
silent  again. 

And  that  was  the  Boulain  Brigade — singing  at  this 
hour  of  the  night,  when  men  should  have  been  sleeping 
if  they  expected  to  be  up  with  the  sun.  Carrigan 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  53 

stared  ahead.  Shortly  his  adventure  would  take  a 
new  twist.  Something  was  bound  to  happen  when 
they  got  ashore.  The  peculiar  glow  of  the  fires  had 
puzzled  him.  Now  he  began  to  understand.  Jeanne 
Marie-Anne  Boulain's  men  were  camped  in  the  edge 
of  the  tar-sands  and  had  lighted  a  number  of  natural 
gas-jets  that  came  up  out  of  the  earth.  Many  times 
he  had  seen  fires  like  these  burning  up  and  down  the 
Three  Rivers.  He  had  lighted  fires  of  his  own;  he 
had  cooked  over  them  and  had  afterward  had  the  fun 
and  excitement  of  extinguishing  them  with  pails  of 
water.  But  he  had  never  seen  anything  quite  like  this 
that  was  unfolding  itself  before  his  eyes  now.  There 
were  seven  of  the  fires  over  an  area  of  half  an  acre — 
spouts  of  yellowish  flame  burning  like  giant  torches  ten 
or  fifteen  feet  in  the  air.  And  between  them  he  very 
soon  made  out  great  bustle  and  activity.  Many  figures 
were  moving  about.  They  looked  like  dwarfs  at  first, 
gnomes  at  play  in  a  little  world  made  out  of  witch 
craft.  But  Bateese  wis  sending  the  canoe  nearer  with 
powerful  strokes,  and  the  figures  grew  taller,  and  the 
spouts  of  flame  higher.  Then  he  knew  what  was  hap 
pening.  The  Boulain  men  were  taking  advantage  of 
the  cool  hours  of  the  night  and  were  tarring  up. 

He  could  smell  the  tar,  and  he  could  see  the  big  York 
boats  drawn  up  in  the  circle  of  yellowish  light.  There 
were  half  a  dozen  of  them,  and  men  stripped  to  the 
waist  were  smearing  the  bottoms  of  the  boats  with 
boiling  tar  and  pitch.  In  the  center  was  a  big,  black 


54  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

cauldron  steaming  over  a  gas-jet,  and  between  this 
cauldron  and  the  boats  men  were  running  back  and 
forth  with  pails.  Still  nearer  to  the  huge  kettle  other 
men  were  filling  a  row  of  kegs  with  the  precious  black 
gondron  that  oozed  up  from  the  bowels  of  the  earth, 
forming  here  and  there  jet-black  pools  that  Carrigan 
could  see  glistening  in  the  flare  of  the  gas-lamps.  He 
figured  there  were  thirty  men  at  work.  Six  big  York 
boats  were  turned  keel  up  in  the  black  sand.  Close 
inshore,  just  outside  the  circle  of  light,  was  a  single 
scow. 

Toward  this  scow  Bateese  sent  the  canoe.  And  as 
they  drew  nearer,  until  the  laboring  men  ashore  were 
scarcely  a  stone's  throw  away,  the  weirdness  of  the 
scene  impressed  itself  more  upon  Carrigan.  Never  had 
he  seen  such  a  crew.  There  were  no  Indians  among 
them.  Lithe,  quick-moving,  bare-headed,  their  naked 
arms  and  shoulders  gleaming  in  the  ghostly  illumina 
tion,  they  were  racing  against  time  with  the  boiling 
tar  and  pitch  in  the  cauldron.  They  did  not  see  the 
approach  of  the  canoe,  and  Bateese  did  not  draw  their 
attention  to  it.  Quietly  he  drove  the  birchbark  under 
the  shadow  of  the  big  bateau.  Hands  were  waiting  to 
seize  and  steady  it.  Carrigan  caught  but  a  glimpse  of 
the  faces.  In  another  instant  the  girl  was  aboard  the 
scow,  and  Bateese  was  bending  over  him.  A  second 
time  he  was  picked  up  like  a  child  in  the  chimpanzee- 
like  arms  of  the  half-breed.  The  moonlight  showed 
him  a  scow  bigger  than  he  had  ever  seen  on  the  upper 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  55 

river,  and  two-thirds  of  it  seemed  to  be  cabin.  Into 
this  cabin  Bateese  carried  him,  and  in  darkness  laid  him 
upon  what  Carrigan  thought  must  be  a  cot  built  against 
the  wall.  He  made  no  sound,  but  let  himself  fall 
limply  upon  it.  He  listened  to  Bateese  as  he  moved 
about,  and  closed  his  eyes  when  Bateese  struck  a  match. 
A  moment  later  he  heard  the  door  of  the  cabin  close 
behind  the  half-breed.  Not  until  then  did  he  open 
his  eyes  and  sit  up. 

He  was  alone.  And  what  he  saw  in  the  next  few 
moments  drew  an  exclamation  of  amazement  from  him. 
Never  had  he  seen  a  cabin  like  this  on  the  Three  Rivers. 
It  was  thirty  feet  long  if  an  inch,  and  at  least  eight  feet 
wide.  The  walls  and  ceiling  were  of  polished  cedar; 
the  floor  was  of  cedar  closely  matched.  It  was  the 
exquisite  finish  and  craftsmanship  of  the  woodwork 
that  caught  his  eyes  first.  Then  his  astonished  senses 
seized  upon  the  other  things.  Under  his  feet  was  a  soft 
rug  of  dark  green  velvet.  Two  magnificent  white  bear 
skins  lay  between  him  and  the  end  of  the  room.  The 
walls  were  hung  with  pictures,  and  at  the  four  win 
dows  were  curtains  of  ivory  lace  draped  with  damask. 
The  lamp  which  Bateese  had  lighted  was  fastened  to 
the  wall  close  to  him.  It  was  of  polished  silver  and 
threw  a  brilliant  light  softened  by  a  shade  of  old  gold. 
There  were  three  other  lamps  like  this,  unlighted.  The 
far  end  of  the  room  was  in  deep  shadow,  but  Carrigan 
made  out  the  thing  he  was  staring  at — a  piano.  He 
rose  to  his  feet,  disbelieving  his  eyes,  and  made  his 


56  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

way  toward  it.  He  passed  between  chairs.  Near  the 
piano  was  another  door,  and  a  wide  divan  of  the  same 
soft,  green  upholstery.  Looking  back,  he  saw  that 
what  he  had  been  lying  upon  was  another  divan.  And 
close  to  this  were  book-shelves,  and  a  table  on  which 
were  magazines  and  papers  and  a  woman's  work- 
basket,  and  in  the  workbasket — sound  asleep — a  cat! 

And  then,  over  the  table  and  the  sleeping  cat,  his  eyes 
rested  upon  a  triangular  banner  fastened  to  the  wall. 
In  white  against  a  background  of  black  was  a  mighty 
polar  bear  holding  at  bay  a  horde  of  Arctic  wolves. 
And  suddenly  the  thing  he  had  been  righting  to  recall 
came  to  Carrigan — the  great  bear — the  fighting  wolves 
— the  crest  of  St.  Pierre  Boulain ! 

He  took  a  quick  step  toward  the  table — then  caught 
at  the  back  of  a  chair.  Confound  his  head !  Or  was 
it  the  big  bateau  rocking  under  his  feet?  The  cat 
seemed  to  be  turning  round  in  its  basket.  There  were 
half  a  dozen  banners  instead  of  one;  the  lamp  was 
shaking  in  its  bracket ;  the  floor  was  tilting,  everything 
was  becoming  hideously  contorted  and  out  of  place.  A 
shroud  of  darkness  gathered  about  him,  and  through 
that  darkness  Carrigan  staggered  blindly  toward  the 
divan.  He  reached  it  just  in  time  to  fall  upon  it  like  a 
dead  man. 


VI 


T7OR  what  seemed  to  be  an  interminable  time  after 
•*•  the  final  breakdown  of  his  physical  strength  David 
Carrigan  lived  in  a  black  world  where  a  horde  of  un 
seen  little  devils  were  shooting  red-hot  arrows  into  his 
brain.  He  did  not  sense  the  fact  of  human  presence; 
nor  that  the  divan  had  been  changed  into  a  bed  and 
the  four  lamps  lighted,  and  that  wrinkled,  brown  hands 
with  talon-like  fingers  were  performing  a  miracle  of 
wilderness  surgery  upon  him.  He  did  not  see  the  age- 
old  face  of  Nepapinas — "The  Wandering  Bolt  of 
Lightning" — as  the  bent  and  tottering  Cree  called  upon 
all  his  eighty  years  of  experience  to  bring  him  back  to 
life.  And  he  did  not  see  Bateese,  stolid-faced,  silent, 
nor  the  dead-white  face  and  wide-open,  staring  eyes 
of  Jeanne  Marie-Anne  Boulain  as  her  slim,  white 
fingers  worked  with  the  old  medicine  man's.  He  was 
in  a  gulf  of  blackness  that  writhed  with  the  spirits  of 
torment.  He  fought  them  and  cried  out  against  them, 
and  his  fighting  and  his  cries  brought  the  look  of  death 
itself  into  the  eyes  of  the  girl  who  was  over  him.  He 
did  not  hear  her  voice  nor  feel  the  soothing  of  her  hands, 
nor  the  powerful  grip  of  Bateese  as  he  held  him  when 
the  critical  moments  came.  And  Nepapinas,  like  a 

57 


58  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

machine  that  had  looked  upon  death  a  thousand  times, 
gave  no  rest  to  his  claw-like  fingers  until  the  work  was 
done — and  it  was  then  that  something  came  to  drive 
the  arrow-shooting  devils  out  of  the  darkness  that  was 
smothering  Carrigan. 

After  that  Carrigan  lived  through  an  eternity  of  un 
rest,  a  life  in  which  he  seemed  powerless  and  yet  was 
always  struggling  for  supremacy  over  things  that  were 
holding  him  down.  There  were  lapses  in  it,  like  the 
hours  of  oblivion  that  come  with  sleep,  and  there  were 
other  times  when  he  seemed  keenly  alive,  yet  unable 
to  move  or  act.  The  darkness  gave  way  to  flashes 
of  light,  and  in  these  flashes  he  began  to  see  things, 
curiously  twisted,  fleeting,  and  yet  fighting  themselves 
insistently  upon  his  senses.  He  was  back  in  the  hot 
sand  again,  and  this  time  he  heard  the  voices  of  Jeanne 
Marie-Anne  and  Golden-Hair,  and  Golden-Hair 
flaunted  a  banner  in  his  face,  a  triangular  pennon  of 
black  on  which  a  huge  bear  was  fighting  white  Arctic 
wolves,  and  then  she  would  run  away  from  him,  cry 
ing  out — "St.  Pierre  Boulain — St.  Pierre  Boulain — " 
and  the  last  he  could  see  of  her  was  her  hair  flaming 
like  fire  in  the  sun.  But  it  was  always  the  other — the 
dark  hair  and  dark  eyes — that  came  to  him  when  the 
little  devils  returned  to  assault  him  with  their  arrows. 
From  somewhere  she  would  come  out  of  darkness  and 
frighten  them  away.  He  could  hear  her  voice  like  a 
whisper  in  his  ears,  and  the  touch  of  her  hands  com 
forted  him  and  quieted  his  pain.  After  a  time  he  grew 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  59 

to  be  afraid  when  the  darkness  swallowed  her  up,  and 
in  that  darkness  he  would  call  for  her,  and  always  he 
heard  her  voice  in  answer. 

Then  came  a  long  oblivion.  He  floated  through  cool 
space  away  from  the  imps  of  torment;  his  bed  was 
of  downy  clouds,  and  on  these  clouds  he  drifted  with  a 
great  shining  river  under  him;  and  at  last  the  cloud 
he  was  in  began  to  shape  itself  into  walls  and  on  these 
walls  were  pictures,  and  a  window  through  which  the 
sun  was  shining,  and  a  black  pennon — and  he  heard 
a  soft,  wonderful  music  that  seemed  to  come  to  him 
faintly  from  another  world.  Other  creatures  were  at 
work  in  his  brain  now.  They  were  building  up  and 
putting  together  the  loose  ends  of  things.  Carrigan 
became  one  of  them,  working  so  hard  that  frequently 
a  pair  of  dark  eyes  came  out  of  the  dawning  of  things 
to  stop  him,  and  quieting  hands  and  a  voice  soothed  him 
to  rest.  The  hands  and  the  voice  became  very  intimate. 
He  missed  them  when  they  were  not  near,  especially 
the  hands,  and  he  was  always  groping  for  them  to 
make  sure  they  had  not  gone  away. 

Only  once  after  the  floating  cloud  transformed  itself 
into  the  walls  of  the  bateau  cabin  did  the  chaotic  dark 
ness  of  the  sands  fully  possess  him  again.  In  that  dark 
ness  he  heard  a  voice.  It  was  not  the  voice  of  Golden- 
Hair,  or  of  Bateese,  or  of  Jeanne  Marie-Anne.  It  was 
close  to  his  ears.  And  in  that  darkness  that  smothered 
him  there  was  something  terrible  about  it  as  it  droned 
slowly  the  words — "Has-any-one-seen-Black-Roger- 


60  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

Andemard?"  He  tried  to  answer,  to  call  back  to  it, 
and  the  voice  came  again,  repeating  the  words, 
emotionless,  hollow,  as  if  echoing  up  out  of  a  grave. 
And  still  harder  he  struggled  to  reply  to  it,  to  say  that 
he  was  David  Carrigan,  and  that  he  was  out  on  the 
trail  of  Black  Roger  Audemard,  and  that  Black  Roger 
was  far  north.  And  suddenly  it  seemed  to  him  that  the 
voice  changed  into  the  flesh  and  blood  of  Black  Roger 
himself,  though  he  could  not  see  in  the  darkness — and 
he  reached  out,  gripping  fiercely  at  the  warm  substance 
of  flesh,  until  he  heard  another  voice,  the  voice  of 
Jeanne  Marie-Anne  Boulain,  entreating  him  to  let  his 
victim  go.  It  was  this  time  that  his  eyes  shot  open, 
wide  and  seeing,  and  straight  over  him  was  the  face 
of  Jeanne  Marie-Anne,  nearer  him  than  it  had  been 
even  in  the  visionings  of  his  feverish  mind.  His 
fingers  were  clutching  her  shoulders,  gripping  like  steel 
hooks. 

"M'sieu — M'sieu  David!"  she  was  crying. 

For  a  moment  he  stared ;  then  his  hands  and  fingers 
relaxed,  and  his  arms  dropped  limply.  "Pardon — I — 
I  was  dreaming,"  he  struggled  weakly.  "I  thought ' 

He  had  seen  the  pain  in  her  face.  Now,  changing 
swiftly,  it  lighted  up  with  relief  and  gladness.  His 
vision,  cleared  by  long  darkness,  saw  the  change  come 
in  an  instant  like  a  flash  of  sunshine.  And  then — so 
near  that  he  could  have  touched  her — she  was  smiling 
down  into  his  eyes.  He  smiled  back.  It  took  an  effort, 
for  his  face  felt  stiff  and  unnatural. 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  61 

"I  was  dreaming — of  a  man — named  Roger  Aude- 
mard,"  he  continued  to  apologize.  "Did  I — hurt  you  ?" 

The  smile  on  her  lips  was  gone  as  swiftly  as  it  had 
come.  "A  little,  m'sieu.  I  am  glad  you  are  better. 
You  have  been  very  sick." 

He  raised  a  hand  to  his  face.  The  bandage  was 
there,  and  also  a  stubble  of  beard  on  his  cheeks.  He 
was  puzzled.  This  morning  he  had  fastened  his  steel 
mirror  to  the  side  of  a  tree  and  shaved. 

"It  was  three  days  ago  you  were  hurt,"  she  said 
quietly.  "This  is  the  afternoon  of  the  third  day.  You 
have  been  in  a  great  fever.  Nepapinas,  my  Indian 
doctor,  saved  your  life,  You  must  lie  quietly  now. 
You  have  been  talking  a  great  deal." 

"About — Black  Roger?"  he  said. 

She  nodded. 

"And— Golden-Hair?" 

"Yes,  of  Golden-Hair." 

"And — some  one  else — with   dark   hair — and   dark 


eyes 

"It  may  be,  m'sieu." 

"And  of  little  devils  with  bows  and  arrows,  and  of 
polar  bears,  and  white  wolves,  and  of  a  great  lord  of 
the  north  who  calls  himself  St.  Pierre  Boulain?" 

"Yes,  of  all  those." 

"Then  I  haven't  anything  more  to  tell  you,"  grunted 
David.  "I  guess  I've  told  you  all  I  know.  You  shot 
me,  back  there.  And  here  I  am.  What  are  you  going 
to  do  next?" 


62  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

"Call  Bateese,"  she  answered  promptly,  and  she  rose 
swiftly  from  beside  him  and  moved  toward  the  door. 

He  made  no  effort  to  call  her  back.  His  wits  were 
working  slowly,  readjusting  themselves  after  a  carnival 
in  chaos,  and  he  scarcely  sensed  that  she  was  gone  until 
the  cabin  door  closed  behind  her.  Then  again  he  raised 
a  hand  to  his  face  and  felt  his  beard.  Three  days !  He 
turned  his  head  so  that  he  could  take  in  the  length  of 
the  cabin.  It  was  filled  with  subdued  sunlight  now,  a 
western  sun  that  glowed  softly,  giving  depth  and  rich 
ness  to  the  colors  on  the  floor  and  walls,  lighting  up  the 
piano  keys,  suffusing  the  pictures  with  a  warmth  of  life. 
David's  eyes  traveled  slowly  to  his  own  feet.  The 
divan  had  been  opened  and  transformed  into  a  bed.  He 
was  undressed.  He  had  on  somebody's  white  night 
gown.  And  there  was  a  big  bunch  of  wild  roses  on  the 
table  where  three  days  ago  the  cat  had  been  sleeping  in 
the  work-basket.  His  head  cleared  swiftly,  and  he 
raised  himself  a  little  on  one  elbow,  with  extreme  cau 
tion,  and  listened.  The  big  bateau  was  not  moving.  It 
was  still  tied  up,  but  he  could  hear  no  voices  out  where 
the  tar-sands  were. 

He  dropped  back  on  his  pillow,  and  his  eyes  rested 
on  the  black  pennon.  His  blood  stirred  again  as  he 
looked  at  the  white  bear  and  the  fighting  wolves. 
Wherever  men  rode  the  waters  of  the  Three  Rivers 
that  pennon  was  known.  Yet  it  was  not  common.  Sel 
dom  was  it  seen,  and  never  had  it  come  south  of  Chipe- 
wyan.  Many  things  came  to  Carrigan  now,  things  that 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  63 

he  had  heard  at  the  Landing  and  up  and  down  the 
rivers.  Once  he  had  read  the  tail-end  of  a  report  the 
Superintendent  of  "N"  Division  had  sent  in  to  head 
quarters. 

"We  do  not  know  this  St.  Pierre.  Few  men  have 
seen  him  out  of  his  own  country,  the  far  headwaters 
of  the  Yellowknife,  where  he  rules  like  a  great  over 
lord.  Both  the  Yellowknives  and  the  Dog  Ribs  call  him 
Kicheoo  Kimow,  or  King,  and  the  same  rumors  say 
there  is  never  starvation  or  plague  in  his  regions ;  and 
it  is  fact  that  neither  the  Hudson's  Bay  nor  Revillon 
Brothers  in  their  cleverest  generalship  and  trade  have 
been  able  to  uproot  his  almost  dynastic  jurisdiction. 
The  Police  have  had  no  reason  to  investigate  or  inter 
fere." 

At  least  that  was  the  gist  of  what  Carrigan  had  read 
in  McVane's  report.  But  he  had  never  associated  it 
with  the  name  of  Boulain.  It  was  of  St.  Pierre  that  he 
had  heard  stories,  St.  Pierre  and  his  black  pennon 
with  its  white  bear  and  righting  wolves.  And  so — it 
was  St.  Pierre  Boulain! 

He  closed  his  eyes  and  thought  of  the  long  winter 
weeks  he  had  passed  at  Hay  River  Post,  watching  for 
Fanchet,  the  mail  robber.  It  was  there  he  had  heard 
most  about  this  St.  Pierre,  and  yet  no  one  he  had  talked 
with  had  ever  seen  him ;  no  one  knew  whether  he  was 
old  or  young,  a  pigmy  or  a  giant.  Some  stories  said 
that  he  was  strong,  that  he  could  twist  a  gun-barrel 
double  in  his  hands;  others  said  that  he  was  old,  very 


64  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

old,  so  that  he  never  set  forth  with  his  brigades  that 
brought  down  each  year  a  treasure  of  furs  to  be  ex 
changed  for  freight.  And  never  did  a  Dog  Rib  or  a 
Yellowknife  open  his  mouth  about  Kicheoo  Kimow  St. 
Pierre,  the  master  of  their  unmapped  domains.  In 
that  great  country  north  and  west  of  the  Great  Slave 
he  remained  an  enigma  and  a  sphinx.  If  he  ever  came 
out  with  his  brigades,  he  did  not  disclose  his  identity, 
so  that  if  one  saw  a  fleet  of  boats  or  canoes  with  the 
St.  Pierre  pennon,  one  had  to  make  his  own  guess 
whether  St.  Pierre  himself  was  there  or  not.  But  these 
things  were  known — that  the  keenest,  quickest,  and 
strongest  men  in  the  northland  ran  the  St.  Pierre  bri 
gades,  that  they  brought  out  the  richest  cargoes  of  furs, 
and  that  they  carried  back  with  them  into  the  secret 
fastnesses  of  their  wilderness  the  greatest  cargoes  of 
freight  that  treasure  could  buy.  So  much  the  name 
St.  Pierre  dragged  out  of  Carrigan's  memory.  It 
came  to  him  now  why  the  name  "Boulain"  had  pounded 
so  insistently  in  his  brain.  He  had  seen  this  pennon 
with  its  white  bear  and  fighting  wolves  only  once  be 
fore,  and  that  had  been  over  a  Boulain  scow  at  Chipe- 
wyan.  But  his  memory  had  lost  its  grip  on  that  in 
cident  while  retaining  vividly  its  hold  on  the  stories 
and  rumors  of  the  mystery-man,  St.  Pierre. 

Carrigan  pulled  himself  a  little  higher  on  his  pillow 
and  with  a  new  interest  scanned  the  cabin.  He  had 
never  heard  of  Boulain  women.  Yet  here  was  the 
proof  of  their  existence  and  of  the  greatness  that  ran 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  65 

in  the  red  blood  of  their  veins.  The  history  of  the 
great  northland,  hidden  in  the  dust-dry  tomes  and 
guarded  documents  of  the  great  company,  had  always 
been  of  absorbing  interest  to  him.  He  wondered  why 
it  was  that  the  outside  world  knew  so  little  about  it 
and  believed  so  little  of  what  it  heard.  A  long  time 
ago  he  had  penned  an  article  telling  briefly  the  story 
of  this  half  of  a  great  continent  in  which  for  two  hun 
dred  years  romance  and  tragedy  and  strife  for  mastery 
had  gone  on  in  a  way  to  thrill  the  hearts  of  men.  He 
had  told  of  huge  forts  with  thirty- foot  stone  bastions, 
of  fierce  wars,  of  great  warships  that  had  fired  their 
broadsides  in  battle  in  the  ice-filled  waters  of  Hudson's 
Bay.  He  had  described  the  coming  into  this  northern 
world  of  thousands  and  tens  of  thousands  of  the 
bravest  and  best-blooded  men  of  England  and  France, 
and  how  these  thousands  had  continued  to  come,  bring 
ing  with  them  the  names  of  kings,  of  princes,  and  of 
great  lords,  until  out  of  the  savagery  of  the  north  rose 
an  aristocracy  of  race  built  up  of  the  strongest  men 
of  the  earth.  And  these  men  of  later  days  he  had 
called  Lords  of  the  North — men  who  had  held  power 
of  life  and  death  in  the  hollow  of  their  hands  until  the 
great  company  yielded  up  its  suzerainty  to  the  Gov 
ernment  of  the  Dominion  in  1870 ;  men  who  were  kings 
in  their  domains,  whose  word  was  law,  who  were  more 
powerful  in  their  wilderness  castles  than  their  mistress 
over  the  sea,  the  Queen  of  Britain. 

And  Carrigan,  after  writing  of  these  things,  had 


66  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

stuffed  his  manuscript  away  in  the  bottom  of  his  chest 
at  barracks,  for  he  believed  that  it  was  not  in  his  power 
to  do  justice  to  the  people  of  this  wilderness  world  that 
he  loved.  The  powerful  old  lords  were  gone.  Like 
dethroned  monarchs,  stripped  to  the  level  of  other  men, 
they  lived  in  the  memories  of  what  had  been.  Their 
might  now  lay  in  trade.  No  more  could  they  set  out 
to  wage  war  upon  their  rivals  with  powder  and  ball. 
Keen  wit,  swift  dogs,  and  the  politics  of  barter  had 
taken  the  place  of  deadlier  things.  Le  factcur  could 
no  longer  slay  or  command  that  others  be  slain.  A 
mightier  hand  than  his  now  ruled  the  destinies  of  the 
northern  people — the  hand  of  the  Royal  Northwest 
Mounted  Police. 

It  was  this  thought,  the  thought  that  Law  and  one 
of  the  powerful  forces  of  the  wilderness  had  met  in 
this  cabin  of  the  big  bateau,  that  came  to  Carrigan  as  he 
drew  himself  still  higher  against  his  pillow.  A  greater 
thrill  possessed  him  than  the  thrill  of  his  hunt  for 
Black  Roger  Audemard.  Black  Roger  was  a  mur 
derer,  a  wholesale  murderer  and  a  fiend,  a  Moloch  for 
whom  there  could  be  no  pity.  Of  all  men  the  Law 
wanted  Black  Roger  most,  and  he,  David  Carrigan, 
was  the  chosen  one  to  consummate  its  desire.  Yet  in 
spite  of  that  he  felt  upon  him  the  strange  unrest  of  a 
greater  adventure  than  the  quest  for  Black  Roger.  It 
was  like  an  impending  thing  that  could  not  be  seen, 
urging  him,  rousing  his  faculties  from  the  slough  into 
which  they  had  fallen  because  of  his  wound  and  sick- 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  67 

ness.  It  was,  after  all,  the  most  vital  of  all  things,  a 
matter  of  his  own  life.  Jeanne  Marie-Anne  Boulain 
had  tried  to  kill  him  deliberately,  with  malice  and 
intent.  That  she  had  saved  him  afterward  only  added 
to  the  necessity  of  an  explanation,  and  he  was  deter 
mined  that  he  would  have  that  explanation  and  settle 
the  present  matter  before  he  allowed  another  thought 
of  Black  Roger  to  enter  his  head. 

This  resolution  reiterated  itself  in  his  mind  as  the 
machine-like  voice  of  duty.  He  was  not  thinking  of 
the  Law,  and  yet  the  consciousness  of  his  account 
ability  to  that  Law  kept  repeating  itself.  In  the  very 
face  of  it  Carrigan  knew  that  something  besides  the 
moral  obligation  of  the  thing  was  urging  him,  some 
thing  that  was  becoming  deeply  and  dangerously  per 
sonal.  At  least  he  tried  to  think  of  it  as  dangerous. 
And  that  danger  was  his  unbecoming  interest  in  the  girl 
herself.  It  was  an  interest  distinctly  removed  from 
any  ethical  code  that  might  have  governed  him  in  his 
experience  with  Carmin  Fanchet,  for  instance.  Com 
paratively,  if  they  had  stood  together,  Carmin  would 
have  been  the  lovelier.  But  he  would  have  looked 
longer  at  Jeanne  Marie-Anne  Boulain. 

He  conceded  the  point,  smiling  a  bit  grimly  as  he 
continued  to  study  that  part  of  the  cabin  which  he 
could  see  from  his  pillow.  He  had  lost  interest — 
temporarily  at  least — in  Black  Roger  Audemard.  Not 
long  ago  the  one  question  to  which,  above  all  others, 
he  had  desired  an  answer  was,  why  had  Jeanne  Marie- 


68  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

Anne  Boulain  worked  so  desperately  to  kill  him  and 
so  hard  to  save  him  afterward?  Now,  as  he  looked 
about  him,  the  question  which  repeated  itself  insistently 
was,  what  relationship  did  she  bear  to  this  mysterious 
lord  of  the  north,  St.  Pierre? 

Undoubtedly  she  was  his  daughter,  for  whom  St. 
Pierre  had  built  this  luxurious  barge  of  state.  A 
fierce-blooded  offspring,  he  thought,  one  like  Cleopatra 
herself,  not  afraid  to  kill — and  equally  quick  to  make 
amends  when  there  was  a  mistake. 

There  came  the  quiet  opening  of  the  cabin  door  to 
break  in  upon  his  thought.  He  hoped  it  was  Jeanne 
Marie-Anne  returning  to  him.  It  was  Nepapinas. 
The  old  Indian  stood  over  him  for  a  moment  and  put  a 
cold,  claw-like  hand  to  his  forehead.  He  grunted  and 
nodded  his  head,  his  little  sunken  eyes  gleaming  with 
satisfaction.  Then  he  put  his  hands  under  David's 
arms  and  lifted  him  until  he  was  sitting  upright,  with 
three  or  four  pillows  at  his  back. 

"Thanks,"  said  Carrigan.  "That  makes  me  feel 
better.  And — if  you  don't  mind — my  last  lunch  was 
three  days  ago,  boiled  prunes  and  a  piece  of 
bannock " 

"I  have  brought  you  something  to  eat,  M'sieu 
David,"  broke  in  a  soft  voice  behind  him. 

Nepapinas  slipped  away,  and  Jeanne  Marie-Anne 
stood  in  his  place.  David  stared  up  at  her,  speech 
less.  He  heard  the  door  close  behind  the  old  Indian. 
Then  Jeanne  Marie-Anne  drew  up  a  chair,  so  that  for 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  69 

the  first  time  he  could  see  her  clear  eyes  with  the  light 
of  day  full  upon  her. 

He  forgot  that  a  few  days  ago  she  had  been  his 
deadliest  enemy.  He  forgot  the  existence  of  a  man 
named  Black  Roger  Audemard.  Her  slimness  was 
as  it  had  pictured  itself  to  him  in  the  hot  sands.  Her 
hair  was  as  he  had  seen  it  there.  It  was  coiled  upon 
her  head  like  ropes  of  spun  silk,  jet-black,  glowing 
softly.  But  it  was  her  eyes  he  stared  at,  and  so  fixed 
was  his  look  that  the  red  lips  trembled  a  bit  on  the 
verge  of  a  smile.  She  was  not  embarrassed.  There 
was  no  color  in  the  clear  whiteness  of  her  skin,  except 
that  redness  of  her  lips. 

"I  thought  you  had  black  eyes,"  he  said  bluntly. 
"I'm  glad  you  haven't.  I  don't  like  them.  Yours  are  as 
brown  as — as " 

"Please,  m'sieu,"  she  interrupted  him,  sitting  down 
close  beside  him.  "Will  you  eat — now  ?" 

A  spoon  was  at  his  mouth,  and  he  was  forced  to 
take  it  in  or  have  its  contents  spilled  over  him.  The 
spoon  continued  to  move  quickly  between  the  bowl  and 
his  mouth.  He  was  robbed  of  speech.  And  the  girl's 
eyes,  as  surely  as  he  was  alive,  were  beginning  to 
laugh  at  him.  They  were  a  wonderful  brown,  with 
little,  golden  specks  in  them,  like  the  freckles  he  had 
seen  in  wood-violets.  Her  lips  parted.  Between  their 
bewitching  redness  he  saw  the  gleam  of  her  white  teeth. 
In  a  crowd,  with  her  glorious  hair  covered  and  her  eyes 
looking  straight  ahead,  one  would  not  have  picked  her 


70  THE  FLAMINC  FOREST 

out.  But  close,  like  this,  with  her  eyes  smiling  at  him, 
she  was  adorable. 

Something  of  Carrigan's  thoughts  must  have  shown 
in  his  face,  for  suddenly  the  girl's  lips  tightened  a  little, 
and  the  warmth  went  out  of  her  eyes,  leaving  them 
cold  and  distant.  He  finished  the  soup,  and  she  rose 
again  to  her  feet. 

"Please  don't  go,"  he  said.  "If  you  do,  I  think  I 
shall  get  up  and  follow.  I  am  quite  sure  I  am  entitled 
to  a  little  something  more  than  soup." 

"Nepapinas  says  that  you  may  have  a  bit  of  boiled 
fish  for  supper,"  she  assured  him. 

"You  know  I  don't  mean  that.  I  want  to  know  why 
you  shot  me,  and  what  you  think  you  are  going  to  do 
with  me." 

"I  shot  you  by  mistake — and — I  don't  know  just 
what  to  do  with  you,"  she  said,  looking  at  him  tran 
quilly,  but  with  what  he  thought  was  a  growing  shadow 
of  perplexity  in  her  eyes.  "Bateese  says  to  fasten  a 
big  stone  to  your  neck  and  throw  you  in  the  river.  But 
Bateese  doesn't  always  mean  what  he  says.  I  don't 
think  he  is  quite  as  bloodthirsty " 

" — As  the  young  lady  who  tried  to  murder  me  be 
hind  the  rock,"  Carrigan  interjected. 

"Exactly,  m'sieu.  I  don't  think  he  would  throw 
you  into  the  river — unless  I  told  him  to.  And  I  don't 
believe  I  am  going  to  ask  him  to  do  that,"  she  added, 
the  soft  glow  flashing  back  into  her  eyes  for  an  in 
stant.  "Not  after  the  splendid  work  Nepapinas  has 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  71 

done  on  your  head.  St.  Pierre  must  see  that.  And 

then,  if  St.  Pierre  wishes  to  finish  you,  why "  She 

shrugged  her  slim  shoulders  and  made  a  little  gesture 
with  her  hands. 

In  that  same  moment  there  came  over  her  a  change 
as  sudden  as  the  passing  of  light  itself.  It  was  as  if 
a  thing  she  was  hiding  had  broken  beyond  her  con 
trol  for  an  instant  and  had  betrayed  her.  The  gesture 
died.  The  glow  went  out  of  her  eyes,  and  in  its  place 
came  a  light  that  was  almost  fear — or  pain.  She  came 
nearer  to  Carrigan  again,  and  somehow,  looking  up 
at  her,  he  thought  of  the  little  brush  warbler  singing 
at  the  end  of  its  birch  twig  to  give  him  courage.  It 
must  have  been  because  of  her  throat,  white  and  soft, 
which  he  saw  pulsing  like  a  beating  heart  before  she 
spoke  to  him. 

"I  have  made  a  terrible  mistake,  m'sieu  David," 
she  said,  her  voice  barely  rising  above  a  whisper.  "I'm 
sorry  I  hurt  yon.  I  thought  it  was  some  one  else  be 
hind  the  rock.  But  I  can  not  tell  you  more  than  that — 
ever.  And  I  know  it  is  impossible  for  us  to  be  friends." 
She  paused,  one  of  her  hands  creeping  to  her  bare 
throat,  as  if  to  cover  the  throbbing  he  had  seen  there. 

"Why  is  it  impossible?"  he  demanded,  leaning  away 
from  his  pillows  so  that  he  might  bring  himself  nearer 
to  her. 

"Because — you  are  of  the  police,  m'sieu." 

"The  police,  yes,"  he  said,  his  heart  thrumming  in 
side  his  breast.  "I  am  Sergeant  Carrigan.  I  am  out 


72  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

after  Roger  Audemard,  a  murderer.  But  my  commis 
sion  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  daughter  of  St.  Pierre 
Boulain.  Please — let's  be  friends " 

He  held  out  his  hand;  and  in  that  moment  David 
Carrigan  placed  another  thing  higher  than  duty — and 
in  his  eyes  was  the  confession  of  it,  like  the  glow  of 
a  subdued  fire.  The  girl's  fingers  drew  more  closely 
at  her  throat,  and  she  made  no  movement  to  accept  his 
hand. 

"Friends,"  he  repeated.  "Friends — in  spite  of  the 
police." 

Slowly  the  girl's  eyes  had  widened,  as  if  she  saw  that 
new-born  thing  riding  over  all  other  things  in  his 
swiftly  beating  heart.  And  afraid  of  it,  she  drew  a 
step  away  from  him. 

"I  am  not  St.  Pierre  Boulain's  daughter,"  she  said, 
forcing  the  words  out  one  by  one.  "I  am — his  wife." 


VII 


A  FTERWARD  Carrigan  wondered  to  what  depths 
•*  *•  he  had  fallen  in  the  first  moments  of  his  disillu 
sionment.  Something  like  shock,  perhaps  even  more 
than  that,  must  have  betrayed  itself  in  his  face.  He 
did  not  speak.  Slowly  his  outstretched  arm  dropped 
to  the  white  counterpane.  Later  he  called  himself  a 
fool  for  allowing  it  to  happen,  for  it  was  as  if  he  had 
measured  his  proffered  friendship  by  what  its  future 
might  hold  for  him.  In  a  low,  quiet  voice  Jeanne 
Marie-Anne  Boulain  was  saying  again  that  she  was 
St.  Pierre's  wife.  She  was  not  excited,  yet  he  under 
stood  now  why  it  was  he  had  thought  her  eyes  were 
very  dark.  They  had  changed  swiftly.  The  violet 
freckles  in  them  were  like  little  flecks  of  gold.  They 
were  almost  liquid  in  their  glow,  neither  brown  nor 
black  now,  and  with  that  threat  of  gathering  lightning 
in  them.  For  the  first  time  he  saw  the  slightest  flush 
of  color  in  her  cheeks.  It  deepened  even  as  he  held 
out  his  hand  again.  He  knew  that  it  was  not  embar 
rassment.  It  was  the  heat  of  the  fire  back  of  her  eyes. 
"It's — funny,"  he  said,  making  an  effort  to  redeem 
himself  with  a  lie  and  smiling.  "You  rather  amaze 
me.  You  see,  I  have  been  told  this  St.  Pierre  is  an 

73 


74  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

old,  old  man — so  old  that  he  can't  stand  on  his  feet 
or  go  with  his  brigades,  and  if  that  is  the  truth,  it  is 
hard  for  me  to  picture  you  as  his  wife.  But  that  isn't 
a  reason  why  we  should  not  be  friends.  Is  it?" 

He  felt  that  he  was  himself  again,  except  for  the 
three  days'  growth  of  beard  on  his  face.  He  tried  to 
laugh,  but  it  was  rather  a  poor  attempt.  And  St. 
Pierre's  wife  did  not  seem  to  hear  him.  She  was  look 
ing  at  him,  looking  into  and  through  him  with  those 
wide-open  glowing  eyes.  Then  she  sat  down,  out  of 
reach  of  the  hand  which  he  had  held  toward  her. 

"You  are  a  sergeant  of  the  police,"  she  said,  the 
softness  gone  suddenly  out  of  her  voice.  "You  are  an 
honorable  man,  m'sieu.  Your  hand  is  against  all 
wrong.  Is  it  not  so?"  It  was  the  voice  of  an  in 
quisitor.  She  was  demanding  an  answer  of  him. 

He  nodded.     "Yes,  it  is  so." 

The  fire  in  her  eyes  deepened.  "And  yet  you  say 
you  want  to  be  the  friend  of  a  stranger  who  has  tried 
to  kill  you.  Why,  m'sieu?" 

He  was  cornered.  He  sensed  the  humiliation  of  it, 
the  impossibility  of  confessing  to  her  the  wild  impulse 
that  had  moved  him  before  he  knew  she  was  St.  Pierre's 
wife.  And  she  did  not  wait  for  him  to  answer. 

"This — this  Roger  Audemard — if  you  catch  him — 
what  will  you  do  with  him  ?"  she  asked. 

"He  will  be  hanged,"  said  David.  "He  is  a  mur 
derer." 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  75 

"And  one  who  tries  to  kill — who  almost  succeeds — 
what  is  the  penalty  for  that?''  She  leaned  toward  him, 
waiting.  Her  hands  were  clasped  tightly  in  her  lap, 
the  spots  were  brighter  in  her  cheeks. 

"From  ten  to  twenty  years,"  he  acknowledged.  "But, 
of  course,  there  may  be  circumstances — 

"If  so,  you  do  not  know  them,"  she  interrupted 
him.  "You  say  Roger  Audemard  is  a  murderer.  You 
know  I  tried  to  kill  you.  Then  why  is  it  you  would  be 
my  friend  and  Roger  Audemard's  enemy?  Why, 
m'sieu  ?" 

Carrigan  shrugged  his  shoulders  hopelessly.  "I 
shouldn't,"  he  confessed.  "I  guess  you  are  proving  I 
was  wrong  in  what  I  said.  I  ought  to  arrest  you  and 
take  you  back  to  the  Landing  as  soon  as  I  can.  But, 
you  see,  it  strikes  me  there  is  a  big  personal  element 
in  this.  I  was  the  man  almost  killed.  There  was  a 
mistake, — must  have  been,  for  as  soon  as  you  put  me 
out  of  business  you  began  nursing  me  back  to  life  again. 
And " 

"But  that  doesn't  change  it,"  insisted  St.  Pierre's 
wife.  "If  there  had  been  no  mistake,  there  would 
have  been  a  murder.  Do  you  understand,  m'sieu? 
If  it  had  been  some  one  else  behind  that  rock,  I  am 
quite  certain  he  would  have  died.  The  Law,  at  least, 
would  have  called  it  murder.  If  Roger  Audemard  is 
a  criminal,  then  I  also  am  a  criminal.  And  an  hon 
orable  man  would  not  make  a  distinction  because  one 
of  them  is  a  woman  !" 


76  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

"But — Black  Roger  was  a  fiend.  He  deserves  no 
mercy.  He " 

"Perhaps,  nrsieu!" 

She  was  on  her  feet,  her  eyes  flaming  down  upon 
him.  In  that  moment  her  beauty  was  like  the  beauty 
of  Carmin  Fanchet.  The  poise  of  her  slender  body,  her 
glowing  cheeks,  her  lustrous  hair,  her  gold-flecked 
eyes  with  the  light  of  diamonds  in  them,  held  him 
speechless. 

"I  was  sorry  and  went  back  for  you,"  she  said.  "I 
wanted  you  to  live,  after  I  saw  you  like  that  on  the 
sand.  Bateese  says  I  was  indiscreet,  that  I  should  have 
left  you  there  to  die.  Perhaps  he  is  right.  And  yet — 
even  Roger  Audemard  might  have  had  that  pity  for 
you." 

She  turned  quickly,  and  he  heard  her  moving  away 
from  him.  Then,  from  the  door,  she  said, 

"Bateese  will  make  you  comfortable,  m'sieu." 

The  door  opened  and  closed.  She  was  gone.  And  he 
was  alone  in  the  cabin  again. 

The  swiftness  of  the  change  in  her  amazed  him.  It 
was  as  if  he  had  suddenly  touched  fire  to  an  explosive. 
There  had  been  the  flare,  but  no  violence.  She  had 
not  raised  her  voice,  yet  he  heard  in  it  the  tremble  of 
an  emotion  that  was  consuming  her.  He  had  seen  the 
flame  of  it  in  her  face  and  eyes.  Something  he  had 
said,  or  had  done,  had  tremendously  upset  her,  chang 
ing  in  an  instant  her  attitude  toward  him.  The  thought 
that  came  to  him  made  his  face  burn  under  its  scrub 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  77 

of  beard.  Did  she  think  he  was  a  scoundrel?  The 
dropping  of  his  hand,  the  shock  that  must  have  be 
trayed  itself  in  his  face  when  she  said  she  was  St. 
Pierre's  wife — had  those  things  warned  her  against 
him?  The  heat  went  slowly  out  of  his  face.  It  was 
impossible.  She  could  not  think  that  of  him.  It  must 
have  been  a  sudden  giving  way  under  terrific  strain. 
She  had  compared  herself  to  Roger  Audemard,  and 
she  was  beginning  to  realize  her  peril — that  Bateese 
was  rjght — that  she  should  have  left  him  to  die  in  the 
sand! 

The  thought  pressed  itself  heavily  upon  Carrigan. 
It  brought  him  suddenly  back  to  a  realization  of  how 
small  a  part  he  had  played  in  this  last  half  hour  in  the 
cabin.  He  had  offered  to  Pierre's  wife  a  friendship 
which  he  had  no  right  to  offer  and  which  she  knew 
he  had  no  right  to  offer.  He  was  the  Law.  And  she, 
like  Roger  Audemard,  was  a  criminal.  Her  quick 
woman's  instinct  had  told  her  there  could  be  no  dis 
tinction  between  them,  unless  there  was  a  reason.  And 
now  Carrigan  confessed  to  himself  that  there  had  been 
a  reason.  That  reason  had  come  to  him  with  the  first 
glimpse  of  her  as  he  lay  in  the  hot  sand.  He  had 
fought  against  it  in  the  canoe;  it  had  mastered  him  in 
those  thrilling  moments  when  he  had  beheld  this  slim, 
beautiful  creature  riding  fearlessly  into  the  boiling 
waters  of  the  Holy  Ghost.  Her  eyes,  her  hair,  the  sweet, 
low  voice  that  had  been  with  him  in  his  fever,  had 
become  a  definite  and  unalterable  part  of  him.  And  this 


78  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

must  have  shown  in  his  eyes  and  face  when  he  dropped 
his  hand — when  she  told  him  she  was  St.  Pierre's  wife. 

And  now  she  was  afraid  of  him !  She  was  regretting 
that  she  had  not  left  him  to  die.  She  had  misunder 
stood  what  she  had  seen  betraying  itself  during  those 
few  seconds  of  his  proffered  friendship.  She  saw  only 
a  man  whom  she  had  nearly  killed,  a  man  who  repre 
sented  the  Law,  a  man  whose  power  held  her  in  the 
hollow  of  his  hand.  And  she  had  stepped  back  from 
him,  startled,  and  had  told  him  that  she  was  not  St. 
Pierre's  daughter,  but  his  wife! 

In  the  science  of  criminal  analysis  Carrigan  always 
placed  himself  in  the  position  of  the  other  man.  And 
he  was  beginning  to  sec  the  present  situation  from  the 
view-point  of  Jeanne  Marie- Anne  Boulain.  He  was 
satisfied  that  she  had  made  a  desperate  mistake  and  that 
until  the  last  moment  she  had  believed  it  was  another 
man  behind  the  rock.  Yet  she  had  shown  no  inclina 
tion  to  explain  away  her  error.  She  had  definitely 
refused  to  make  an  explanation.  And  it  was  simply 
a  matter  of  common  sense  to  concede  that  there  must 
be  a  powerful  motive  for  her  refusal.  There  was  but 
one  conclusion  for  him  to  arrive  at — the  error  which 
St.  Pierre's  wife  had  made  in  shooting  the  wrong  man 
was  less  important  to  her  than  keeping  the  secret  of  why 
she  had  wanted  to  kill  some  other  man. 

David  was  not  unconscious  of  the  breach  in  his  own 
armor.  He  had  weakened,  just  as  the  Superintendent 
of  "N"  Division  had  weakened  that  day  four  years  ago 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  79 

when  they  had  almost  quarreled  over  Carmin  Fanchet. 

"I'll  swear  to  Heaven  she  isn't  bad,  no  matter  what 
her  brother  has  been,"  Me  Vane  had  said.  "I'll  gamble 
my  life  on  that,  Carrigan !" 

And  because  the  Chief  of  Division  with  sixty  years 
of  experience  behind  him,  had  believed  that,  Carmin 
Fanchet  had  not  been  held  as  an  accomplice  in  her 
brother's  evilcloing,  but  had  gone  back  into  her  wilder 
ness  uncrucified  by  the  law  that  had  demanded  the  life 
of  her  brother.  He  would  never  forget  the  last  time 
he  had  seen  Carmin  Fanchet's  eyes — great,  black,  glori 
ous  pools  of  gratitude  as  they  looked  at  grizzled  old 
Me  Vane;  blazing  fires  of  venomous  hatred  when  they 
turned  on  him.  And  he  had  said  to  McVane, 

"The  man  pays,  the  woman  goes — justice  indeed  is 
blind!" 

McVane,  not  being  a  stickler  on  regulations  when  it 
came  to  Carrigan,  had  made  no  answer. 

The  incident  came  back  vividly  to  David  as  he  waited 
for  the  promised  coming  of  Bateese.  He  began  to 
appreciate  McVane's  point  of  view,  and  it  was  com 
forting,  because  he  realized  that  his  own  logic  was 
assailable.  If  McVane  had  been  comparing  the  two 
women  now,  he  knew  what  his  argument  would  be. 
There  had  been  no  absolute  proof  of  crime  against 
Carmin  Fanchet,  unless  to  fight  desperately  for  the  life 
of  her  brother  was  a  crime.  In  the  case  of  Jeanne 
Marie-Anne  Boulain  there  was  proof.  She  had  tried 


8o  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

to  kill.  Therefore,  of  the  two,  Carmin  Fanchet  would 
have  been  the  better  woman  in  the  eyes  of  Me  Vane. 

In  spite  of  the  legal  force  of  the  argument  which  he 
was  bringing  against  himself,  David  felt  unconvinced. 
Carmin  Fanchet,  had  she  been  in  the  place  of  St. 
Pierre's  wife,  would  have  finished  him  there  in  the 
sand.  She  would  have  realized  the  menace  of  letting 
him  live  and  would  probably  have  commanded  Bateese 
to  dump  him  in  the  river.  St.  Pierre's  wife  had  gone 
to  the  other  extreme.  She  was  not  only  repentant,  but 
was  making  restitution  for  her  mistake,  and  in  making 
that  restitution  had  crossed  far  beyond  the  dead-line  of 
caution.  She  had  frankly  told  him  who  she  was;  she 
had  brought  him  into  the  privacy  of  what  was  un 
deniably  her  own  home ;  in  her  desire  to  undo  what  she 
had  done  she  had  hopelessly  enmeshed  herself  in  the 
net  of  the  Law — if  that  Law  saw  fit  to  act.  She  had 
done  these  things  with  courage  and  conviction.  And 
of  such  a  woman,  Carrigan  thought,  St.  Pierre  must  be 
very  proud. 

He  looked  slowly  about  the  cabin  again  and  each 
thing  that  he  saw  was  a  living  voice  breaking  up  a 
dream  for  him.  These  voices  told  him  that  he  was  in 
a  temple  built  because  of  a  man's  worship  for  a  woman 
— and  that  man  was  St.  Pierre.  Through  the  two 
western  windows  came  the  last  glow  of  the  western  sun, 
like  a  golden  benediction  finding  its  way  into  a  sacred 
place.  Here  there  was — or  had  been — a  great  happi 
ness,  for  only  a  great  pride  and  a  great  happiness  could 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  81 

have  made  it  as  it  was.  Nothing  that  wealth  and  toil 
could  drag  up  out  of  a  civilization  a  thousand  miles 
away  had  been  too  good  for  St.  Pierre's  wife.  And 
about  him,  looking  more  closely,  David  saw  the  un 
disturbed  evidences  of  a  woman's  contentment.  On 
the  table  were  embroidery  materials  with  which  she 
had  been  working,  and  a  lamp-shade  half  finished.  A 
woman's  magazine  printed  in  a  city  four  thousand 
miles  away  lay  open  at  the  fashion  plates.  There  were 
other  magazines,  and  many  books,  and  open  music 
above  the  white  keyboard  of  the  piano,  and  vases  glow 
ing  red  and  yellow  with  wild-flowers  and  silver  birch 
leaves.  He  could  smell  the  faint  perfume  of  the  fire- 
glow  blossoms,  red  as  blood.  In  a  pool  of  sunlight  on 
one  of  the  big  white  bear  rugs  lay  the  sleeping  cat.  And 
then,  at  the  far  end  of  the  cabin,  an  ivory-white  Cross 
of  Christ  glowed  for  a  few  moments  in  a  last  homage 
of  the  sinking  sun. 

Uneasiness  stole  upon  him.  This  was  the  woman's 
holy  ground,  her  sanctuary  and  her  home,  and  for 
three  days  his  presence  had  driven  her  from  it.  There 
was  no  other  room.  In  making  restitution  she  had 
given  up  to  him  her  most  sacred  of  all  things.  And 
again  there  rose  up  in  him  that  new-born  thing  which 
had  set  strange  fires  stirring  in  his  heart,  and  which 
from  this  hour  on  he  knew  he  must  fight  until  it  was 
dead. 

For  an  hour  after  the  last  of  the  sun  was  obliterated 
by  the  western  mountains  he  lay  in  the  gloom  of  com- 


82  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

ing  darkness.  Only  the  lapping  of  water  under  the 
bateau  broke  the  strange  stillness  of  the  evening.  He 
heard  no  sound  of  life,  no  voice,  no  tread  of  feet,  and 
he  wondered  where  the  woman  and  her  men  had  gone 
and  if  the  scow  was  still  tied  up  at  the  edge  of  the  tar- 
sands.  And  for  the  first  time  he  asked  himself  another 
question.  Where  was  the  man,  St.  Pierre  ? 


VIII 

TT  was  utterly  dark  in  the  cabin,  when  the  stillness 
•*•  was  broken  by  low  voices  outside.  The  door 
opened,  and  some  one  came  in.  A  moment  later  a 
match  flared  up,  and  in  the  shifting  glow  of  it  Carrigan 
saw  the  dark  face  of  Bateese,  the  half-breed.  One 
after  another  he  lighted  the  four  lamps.  Not  until 
he  had  finished  did  he  turn  toward  the  bed.  It  was 
then  that  David  had  his  first  good  impression  of  the 
man.  He  was  not  tall,  but  built  with  the  strength  of  a 
giant.  His  arms  were  long.  His  shoulders  were 
stooped.  His  head  was  like  the  head  of  a  stone  gar 
goyle  come  to  life.  Wide-eyed,  heavy-lipped,  with  the 
high  cheek-bones  of  an  Indian  and  uncut  black  hair 
bound  with  the  knotted  red  mouchoir,  he  looked  more 
than  ever  like  a  pirate  and  a  cutthroat  to  David.  Such 
a  man,  he  thought,  might  make  play  out  of  the  busi 
ness  of  murder.  And  yet,  in  spite  of  his  ugliness, 
David  felt  again  the  mysterious  inclination  to  like  the 
man. 

Bateese  grinned.  It  was  a  huge  grin,  for  his  mouth 
was  big.  "You  ver'  lucky  fellow/'  he  announced. 
"You  sleep  lak  that  in  nice  sof  bed  an'  not  back  on 
san'-bar,  dead  lak  ze  feesh  I  bring  you,  m'sieu.  That 

83 


84  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

ees  wan  beeg  mistake.  Bateese  say,  'Tie  ze  stone  roun' 
hees  neck  an'  mak'  heem  wan  ange  de  ruer.  Chuck 
heem  in  ze  river,  ma  belle  Jeanne !'  An'  she  say  no, 
mak  heem  well,  an'  feed  heem  feesh.  So  I  bring  ze 
feesh  which  she  promise,  an'  when  you  have  eat,  I  tell 
you  somet'ing !" 

He  returned  to  the  door  and  brought  back  with  him 
a  wicker  basket.  Then  he  drew  up  the  table  beside 
Carrigan  and  proceeded  to  lay  out  before  him  the  boiled 
fish  which  St.  Pierre's  wife  had  promised  him.  With 
it  was  bread  and  an  earthen  pot  of  hot  tea. 

"She  say  that  ees  all  you  have  because  of  ze  fever. 
Bateese  say,  'Stuff  heem  wit'  much  so  that  he  die 
queek!'" 

"You  want  to  see  me  dead.    Is  that  it,  Bateese  ?" 

"Oui.  You  mak'  wan  ver'  good  dead  man,  m'sieu !" 
Bateese  was  no  longer  grinning.  He  stood  back  and 
pointed  at  the  food.  "You  eat — queek.  An'  when  you 
have  finish'  I  tell  you  somet'ing!" 

Now  that  he  saw  the  luscious  bit  of  whitefish  be 
fore  him,  Carrigan  was  possessed  of  the  hungering 
emptiness  of  three  days  and  nights.  As  he  ate,  he  ob 
served  that  Bateese  was  performing  curious  duties.  He 
straightened  a  couple  of  rugs,  ran  fresh  water  into 
the  flower  vases,  picked  up  half  a  dozen  scattered 
magazines,  and  then,  to  David's  increasing  interest, 
produced  a  dust-cloth  from  somewhere  and  began  to 
dust.  David  finished  his  fish,  the  one  slice  of  bread, 
and  his  cup  of  tea.  He  felt  tremendously  good.  The 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  85 

hot  tea  was  like  a  trickle  of  new  life  through  every 
vein  in  his  body,  and  he  had  the  desire  to  get  up  and 
try  out  his  legs.  Suddenly  Bateese  discovered  that  his 
patient  was  laughing  at  him. 

"Que  diable!"  he  demanded,  coming  up  ferociously 
with  the  cloth  in  his  great  hand.  "You  see  somet'ing 
ver'  fonny,  m'sieu?" 

"No,  nothing  funny,  Bateese/'  grinned  Carrigan.  "I 
was  just  thinking  what  a  handsome  chambermaid  you 
make.  You  are  so  gentle,  so  nice  to  look  at,  so " 

ec Diable!"  exploded  Bateese,  dropping  his  dust  cloth 
and  bringing  his  huge  hands  down  upon  the  table  with  a 
smash  that  almost  wrecked  the  dishes.  "You  have 
eat,  an'  now  you  lissen.  You  have  never  hear'  before 
of  Concombre  Bateese.  An'  zat  ees  me.  See !  Wit' 
these  two  hands  I  have  choke'  ze  polar  bear  to  deat'. 
I  am  strongest  man  w'at  ees  in  all  nort'  countree.  I 
pack  four  hundre'  pound  ovair  portage.  I  crack  ze 
caribou  bones  wit'  my  teeth,  lak  a  dog.  I  run  sixt' 
or  hundre'  miles  wit'out  stop  for  rest.  I  pull  down 
trees  w'at  oder  man  cut  wit'  axe.  I  am  not  'fraid  of 
not'ing.  You  lissen  ?  You  hear  w'at  I  say  ?" 

"I  hear  you." 

"Bien!  Then  I  tell  you  w'at  Concombre  Bateese  ees 
goin'  do  wit'  you,  M'sieu  Sergent  de  Police !  Ma  bdle 
Jeanne  she  mak'  wan  gran'  meestake.  She  too  much 
leetle  bird  heart,  too  much  pity  for  want  you  to  die. 
Bateese  say,  'Keel  him,  so  no  wan  know  w'at  happen 
t'ree  day  ago  behin'  ze  rock.'  But  ma  belle  Jeanne,  she 


86  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

say,  'No,  Bateese,  he  ees  meestake  for  oder  man,  an' 
we  mus'  let  heem  live.'  An'  then  she  tell  me  to  come 
an'  bring  you  feesh,  an'  tell  you  w'at  is  goin'  happen 
if  you  try  go  away  from  thees  bateau.  You  compreri? 
If  you  try  run  away,  Bateese  ees  goin'  keel  you!  See — 
wit'  thees  han's  I  br'ak  your  neck  an'  t'row  you  in 
river.  Ma  belle  Jeanne  say  do  zat,  an'  she  tell  oder 
mans — twent',  thirt',  almos'  hundre'  garcons — to  keel 
you  if  you  try  run  away.  She  tell  me  bring  zat  word 
to  you  wit'  ze  feesh.  You  listen  hard  w'at  I  say?" 

If  ever  a  worker  of  iniquity  lived  on  earth,  Carri- 
gan  might  have  judged  Bateese  as  that  man  in  these 
moments.  The  half-breed  had  worked  himself  up  to 
a  ferocious  pitch.  His  eyes  rolled.  His  wide  mouth 
snarled  in  the  virulence  of  its  speech.  His  thick  neck 
grew  corded,  and  his  huge  hands  clenched  menacingly 
upon  the  table.  Yet  David  had  no  fear.  He  wanted  to 
laugh,  but  he  knew  laughter  would  be  the  deadliest 
of  insults  to  Bateese  just  now.  He  remembered  that 
the  half-breed,  fierce  as  a  pirate,  had  a  touch  as  gentle 
as  a  woman's.  This  man,  who  could  choke  an  ox  with 
his  monstrous  hands,  had  a  moment  before  petted  a 
cat,  straightened  out  rugs,  watered  the  woman's  flow 
ers,  and  had  dusted.  He  was  harmless — now.  And 
yet  in  the  same  breath  David  sensed  the  fact  that  a 
single  word  from  St.  Pierre's  wife  would  be  sufficient 
to  fire  his  brute  strength  into  a  blazing  volcano  of 
action.  Such  a  henchman  was  priceless — under  certain 


c:You  compren'P      If  you  try  run  away,  Bateese  ees  goin'  keel  you!" 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  87 

conditions!  And  he  had  brought  a  warning  straight 
from  the  woman. 

"I  think  I  understand  what  you  mean,  Bateese,"  he 
said.  "She  says  that  I  am  to  make  no  effort  to  leave 
this  bateau — that  I  am  to  be  killed  if  I  try  to  escape? 
Are  you  sure  she  said  that?" 

"Par  les  tnille  comes  du  diable,  you  t'ink  Bateese 
lie,  m'sieu?  Concombre  Bateese,  who  choke  ze  w'ite 
bear  wit'  hees  two  han',  who  pull  down  ze  tree " 

"No,  no,  I  don't  think  you  lie.  But  I  am  wonder 
ing  why  she  didn't  tell  me  that  when  she  was  here." 

"Becaus'  she  have  too  much  leetle  bird  heart,  zat  ees 
w'y.  She  say:  'Bateese,  you  tell  heem  he  mus'  wait 
for  St.  Pierre.  An'  you  tell  heem  good  an'  hard,  lak 
you  choke  ze  w'ite  bear  an'  lak  you  pull  down  ze  tree, 
so  he  mak'  no  meestake  an'  try  get  away.'  An'  she 
tell  zat  before  all  ze  ba tellers — all  ze  St.  Pierre  mans 
gathered  'bout  a  beeg  fire — an'  they  shout  up  lak  wan 
gargon  that  they  watch  an'  keel  you  if  you  try  get 
away." 

Carrigan  reached  out  a  hand.  "Let's  shake,  Ba 
teese.  I'll  give  you  my  word  that  I  won't  try  to  escape 
— not  until  you  and  I  have  a  good  stand-up  *Vht  with 
the  earth  under  our  feet,  and  I've  whipped  you.  Is  it 
a  go?" 

Bateese  stared  for  a  moment,  and  then  his  face 
broke  into  a  wide  grin.  "You  lak  ze  fight,  m'sieu?" 

"Yes.    I  love  a  scrap  with  a  good  man  like  you." 

One  of  Bateese's  huge  hands  crawled   slowly   over 


88  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

the  table  and  engulfed  David's.  Joy  shone  on  his 
face. 

"An'  you  promise  give  me  zat  fight,  \v'en  you  are 
strong  ?" 

"If  I  don't,  I'll  let  you  tie  a  stone  around  my  neck 
and  drop  me  into  the  river." 

"You  are  brave  garqon,"  cried  the  delighted  Bateese. 
"Up  an'  down  ze  rivers  ees  no  man  w'at  can  whip 
Concombre  Bateese!''  Suddenly  his  face  grew  clouded. 
"But  ze  head,  m'sieu?"  he  added  anxiously. 

"It  will  get  well  quickly  if  you  will  help  me,  Bateese. 
Right  now  I  want  to  get  up.  I  want  to  stretch  my 
legs.  Was  my  head  bad  ?'' 

"Non.  Ze  bullet  scrape  ze  ha'r  off — so — so — an' 
turn  ze  brain  seek.  I  t'ink  you  be  good  fighting  man  in 
week!'' 

"And  you  will  help  me  up?" 

Bateese  was  a  changed  man.  Again  David  felt  that 
mighty  but  gentle  strength  of  his  arms  as  he  helped 
him  to  his  feet.  He  was  a  trifle  unsteady  for  a  mo 
ment.  Then,  with  the  half-breed  close  at  his  side, 
ready  to  catch  him  if  his  legs  gave  way,  he  walked  to 
one  of  th<°  windows  and  looked  out.  Across  the  river, 
fully  halt  a  mile  away,  he  saw  the  glow  of  fires. 

"Her  camp?"  he  asked. 

"Old,  m'sieu." 

"We  have  moved  from  the  tar-sands?" 

"Yes,  two  days  down  ze  river." 

"Why  are  they  not  camping  over  here  with  us?" 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  89 

Bateese  gave  a  disgusted  grunt.  "Becaus'  ma  belle 
Jeanne  have  such  leetle  bird  heart,  m'sieu.  She  say 
you  mus'  not  have  noise  near,  lak  ze  talk  an'  laugh  an' 
ze  chansons.  She  say  it  disturb,  an'  zat  it  mak  you 
worse  wit'  ze  fever.  She  ees  mak  you  lak  de  baby, 
Bateese  say  to  her.  But  she  on'y  laugh  at  zat  an'  snap 
her  leetle  w'ite  finger.  Wait  St.  Pierre  come !  He 
brak  yo'r  head  wit'  hees  two  fists.  I  hope  we  have 
ze  fight  Ixrfore  then,  m'sieu !'' 

"We'll  have  it  anyway,  Bateese.  Where  is  St. 
Pierre,  and  when  shall  we  see  him?'' 

Bateese  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Mebby  week, 
mebby  more.  I  le  long  way  off." 

"Is  he  an  old  man?'1 

Slowly  Bateese  turned  David  about  until  he  was 
facing  him.  "You  ask  not'ing  more  about  St.  Pierre," 
he  warned.  "No  mans  talk  'bout  St.  Pierre.  Only  wan 
— ma  belle  Jeanne.  You  ask  her,  an'  she  tell  you  shut 
up.  W'en  you  don't  L-hut  up  she  call  Bateese  to  brak 
your  head." 

"You're  a — a  sort  of  all-round  head-breaker,  as  I 
understand  it,"  grunted  David,  walking  slowly  back 
to  his  bed.  "Will  you  bring  me  my  pack  and  clothes 
in  the  morning?  I  want  to  shave  and  dress." 

Bateese  was  ahead  of  him,  smoothing  the  pillows  and 
straightening  out  the  rumpled  bed-clothes.  His  huge 
hands  were  quick  and  capable  as  a  woman's,  and  David 
could  not  keep  himself  from  chuckling  at  this  feminine 
ingeniousness  of  the  powerful  half-breed.  Once  in  the 


90  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

crush  of  those  gorilla-like  arms  that  were  working  over 
his  bed  now,  he  thought,  and  it  would  be  all  over  with 
the  strongest  man  in  "N"  Division.  Bateese  heard  the 
chuckle  and  looked  up. 

"Somet'ing  ver'  funny  once  more,  is  eet — w'at?"  he 
demanded. 

"I  was  thinking,  Bateese — what  will  happen  to  me 
if  you  get  me  in  those  arms  when  we  fight?  But  it 
isn't  going  to  happen.  I  fight  with  my  fists,  and  I'm 
going  to  batter  you  up  so  badly  that  nobody  will  recog 
nize  you  for  a  long  time." 

"You  wait!"  exploded  Bateese,  making  a  horrible 
grimace.  "I  choke  you  lak  w'ite  bear,  I  t'row  you 
ovair  my  should'r,  I  mash  you  lak  leetle  strawberr', 
I "  He  paused  in  his  task  to  advance  with  a  for 
midable  gesture. 

"Not  now,"  warned  Carrigan.  "I'm  still  a  bit 
groggy,  Bateese."  He  pointed  down  at  the  bed.  "I'm 
driving  her  from  that,"  he  said.  "I  don't  like  it.  Is 
she  sleepin'  over  there — in  the  camp?" 

"Mebby — an'  mebby  not,  m'sieu,"  growled  Bateese. 
"You  mak'  guess,  eh?" 

He  began  extinguishing  the  lights,  until  only  the 
one  nearest  the  door  was  left  burning.  He  did  not 
turn  toward  Carrigan  or  speak  to  him  again.  When  he 
went  out,  David  heard  the  click  of  a  lock  in  the  door. 
Bateese  had  not  exaggerated.  It  was  the  intention  of 
St.  Pierre's  wife  that  he  should  consider  himself  a  pris 
oner — at  least  for  tonight. 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  91 

He  had  no  desire  to  lie  down  again.  There  was  an 
unsteadiness  in  his  legs,  but  outside  of  that  the  evil 
of  his  sickness  no  longer  oppressed  him.  The  staff 
doctor  at  the  Landing  would  probably  have  called  him 
a  fool  for  not  convalescing  in  the  usual  prescribed  way, 
but  Carrigan  was  already  beginning  to  feel  the  demand 
for  action.  In  spite  of  what  physical  effort  he  had 
made,  his  head  did  not  hurt  him,  and  his  mind  was 
keenly  alive.  He  returned  to  the  window  through 
which  he  could  see  the  fires  on  the  western  shore,  and 
found  no  difficulty  in  opening  it.  A  strong  screen  net 
ting  kept  him  from  thrusting  out  his  head  and  shoul 
ders.  Through  it  came  the  cool  night  breeze  of  the 
river.  It  seemed  good  to  fill  his  lungs  with  it  again 
and  smell  the  fresh  aroma  of  the  forest.  It  was  very 
dark,  and  the  fires  across  the  river  were  brighter  be 
cause  of  the  deep  gloom.  There  was  no  promise  of 
the  moon  in  the  sky.  He  could  not  see  a  star.  From 
far  in  the  west  he  caught  the  low  intonation  of  thunder. 

Carrigan  turned  from  the  window  to  the  end  of  the 
cabin  in  which  the  piano  stood.  Here,  too,  was  the 
second  divan,  and  he  saw  the  meaning  now  of  two 
close-tied  curtains,  one  at  each  side  of  the  cabin.  Drawn 
together  on  a  taut  wire  stretched  two  inches  under 
the  ceiling,  they  shut  off  this  end  of  the  bateau  and 
turned  at  least  a  third  of  the  cabin  into  the  privacy 
of  the  woman's  bedroom.  With  growing  uneasiness 
David  saw  the  evidences  that  this  had  been  her  sleeping 
apartment.  At  each  side  of  the  piano  was  a  small 


92  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

door,  and  he  opened  one  of  these  just  enough  to  dis 
cover  that  it  was  a  wardrobe  closet.  A  third  door  opened 
on  the  shore  side  of  the  bateau,  but  this  was  locked. 
Shut  out  from  the  view  of  the  lower  end  of  the  cabin  by 
a  Japanese  screen  were  a  small  dresser  and  a  mirror. 
In  the  dim  illumination  that  came  from  the  distant 
lamp  David  bent  over  the  open  sheet  of  music  on  the 
piano.  It  was  Mascagni's  Avc  Maria, 

His  blood  tingled.  His  brain  was  stirred  by  a  new 
emotion,  a  growing  thing  that  made  him  uneasy  and 
filled  him  with  a  strange  restlessness.  He  felt  as 
though  he  had  come  suddenly  to  the  edge  of  a  great 
danger;  somewhere  within  him  an  intelligence  seized 
upon  it  and  understood.  Yet  it  was  not  physical  enough 
for  him  to  fight.  It  was  a  danger  which  crept  up  and 
about  him,  something  which  he  could  not  see  or  touch 
and  yet  which  made  his  heart  beat  faster  and  the  blood 
come  into  his  face.  It  drew  him,  triumphed  over  him, 
dragged  his  hand  forth  until  his  fingers  closed  upon  a 
lacy,  crumpled  bit  of  a  handkerchief  that  lay  on  the 
edge  of  the  piano  keys.  It  was  the  woman's  handker 
chief,  and  like  a  thief  he  raised  it  slowly.  It  smelled 
faintly  of  crushed  violets ;  it  was  as  if  she  were  bending 
over  him  in  his  sickness  again,  and  it  was  her  breath 
that  came  to  him.  He  was  not  thinking  of  her  as  St. 
Pierre's  wife.  And  then  sharply  he  caught  himself 
and  placed  the  handkerchief  back  on  the  piano  keys. 
He  tried  to  laugh  at  himself,  but  there  was  an  empti- 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  93 

ness  where  a  moment  before  there  had  been  that  thrill 
of  which  he  was  now  ashamed. 

He  turned  back  to  the  window.  The  thunder  had 
come  nearer.  It  was  coming  up  fast  out  of  the  west, 
and  with  it  a  darkness  that  was  like  the  blackness  of  a 
pit.  A  dead  stillness  was  preceding  it  now,  and  in  that 
stillness  it  seemed  to  Carrigan  that  he  could  hear  the 
soapy,  slitting  sound  of  the  streaming  flashes  of  elec 
trical  fire  that  blazoned  the  advance  of  the  storm.  The 
camp-fires  across  the  river  were  dying  down.  One 
of  them  went  out  as  he  looked  at  it,  and  he  stared  into 
the  darkness  as  if  trying  to  pierce  distance  and  gloom 
to  see  what  sort  of  a  shelter  it  was  that  St.  Pierre's 
wife  had  over  there.  And  there  came  over  him  in 
these  moments  a  desire  that  was  almost  cowardly.  It 
was  the  desire  to  escape,  to  leave  behind  him  the 
memory  of  the  rock  and  of  St.  Pierre's  wife,  and  to 
pursue  once  more  his  own  great  adventure,  the  quest 
of  Black  Roger  Audemard. 

He  heard  the  rain  coming.  At  first  the  sound  of  it 
was  like  the  pattering  of  ten  million  tiny  feet  in  dry 
leaves;  then,  suddenly,  it  was  like  the  roar  of  an  ava 
lanche.  It  was  an  inundation,  and  with  it  came  crash 
after  crash  of  thunder,  and  the  black  skies  were  illu 
mined  by  an  almost  uninterrupted  glare  of  lightning. 
It  had  been  a  long  time  since  Carrigan  had  felt  the 
shock  of  such  a  storm.  He  closed  the  window  to  keep 
the  rain  out,  and  after  that  stood  with  his  face  flat 
tened  against  the  glass,  staring  over  the  river.  The 


94  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

camp-fires  were  all  gone  now,  blotted  out  like  so  many 
candles  snuffed  between  thumb  and  forefinger,  and  he 
shuddered.  No  canvas  ever  made  would  keep  that 
deluge  out.  And  now  there  was  growing  up  a  wind 
with  it.  The  tents  on  the  other  side  would  be  beaten 
down  like  pegged  sheets  of  paper,  ripped  up  and  torn 
to  pieces.  He  imagined  St.  Pierre's  wife  in  that  tumult 
and  distress — the  breath  blown  out  of  her,  half 
drowned,  blinded  by  deluge  and  lightning,  broken  and 
beaten  because  of  him.  Thought  of  her  companions 
did  not  ease  his  mind.  Human  hands  were  entirely 
inadequate  to  cope  with  a  storm  like  this  that  was 
rocking  the  earth  about  him. 

Suddenly  he  went  to  the  door,  determined  that  if 
Bateese  was  outside  he  would  get  some  satisfaction 
out  of  him  or  challenge  him  to  a  fight  right  there.  He 
beat  against  it,  first  with  one  fist  and  then  with  both. 
He  shouted.  There  was  no  response.  Then  he  exerted 
his  strength  and  his  weight  against  the  door.  It  was 
solid. 

He  was  half  turned  when  his  eyes  discovered,  in  a 
corner  where  the  lamplight  struck  dimly,  his  pack  and 
clothes.  In  thirty  seconds  he  had  his  pipe  and  tobacco. 
After  that  for  half  an  hour  he  paced  up  and  down  the 
cabin,  while  the  storm  crashed  and  thundered  as  if 
bent  upon  destroying  all  life  off  the  face  of  the  earth. 

Comforted  by  the  company  of  his  pipe,  Carrigan  did 
not  beat  at  the  door  again.  He  waited,  and  at  the  end 
of  another  half-hour  the  storm  had  softened  down  into 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  95 

a  steady  patter  of  rain.  The  thunder  had  traveled  east, 
and  the  lightning  had  gone  with  it.  David  opened  the 
window  again.  The  air  that  came  in  was  rain-sweet, 
soft,  and  warm.  He  puffed  out  a  cloud  of  smoke  and 
smiled.  His  pipe  always  brought  his  good  humor  to 
the  surface,  even  in  the  worst  places.  St.  Pierre's  wife 
had  certainly  had  a  good  soaking.  And  in  a  way  the 
whole  thing  was  a  bit  funny.  He  was  thinking  now  of 
a  poor  little  golden-plumaged  partridge,  soaked  to  the 
skin,  with  its  tail-feathers  dragging  pathetically.  Grin 
ning,  he  told  himself  that  it  was  an  insult  to  think  of 
her  and  a  half -drowned  partridge  in  the  same  breath. 
But  the  simile  still  remained,  and  he  chuckled.  Probably 
she  was  wringing  out  her  clothes  now,  and  the  men 
were  cursing  under  their  breath  while  trying  to  light 
a  fire.  He  watched  for  the  fire.  It  failed  to  appear. 
Probably  she  was  hating  him  for  bringing  all  this 
discomfort  and  humiliation  upon  her.  It  was  not  im 
possible  that  tomorrow  she  would  give  Bateese  per 
mission  to  brain  him.  And  St.  Pierre?  What  would 
this  man,  her  husband,  think  and  do  if  he  knew  that 
his  wife  had  given  up  her  bedroom  to  this  stranger? 
What  complications  might  arise  if  he  knew! 

It  was  late — past  midnight — when  Carrigan  went  to 
bed.  Even  then  he  did  not  sleep  for  a  long  time.  The 
patter  of  the  rain  grew  less  and  less  on  the  roof  of  the 
bateau,  and  as  the  sound  of  it  droned  itself  off  into 
nothingness,  slumber  came.  David  was  conscious  of 
the  moment  when  the  rain  ceased  entirely.  Then  he 


96  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

slept.  At  least  he  must  have  been  very  close  to  sleep, 
or  had  been  asleep  and  was  returning  for  a  moment 
close  to  consciousness,  when  he  heard  a  voice.  It  came 
several  times  before  he  was  roused  enough  to  realize 
that  it  was  a  voice.  And  then,  suddenly,  piercing  his 
slowly  wakening  brain  almost  with  the  shock  of  one  of 
the  thunder  crashes,  it  came  to  him  so  distinctly  that 
he  found  himself  sitting  up  straight,  his  hands  clenched, 
eyes  staring  in  the  darkness,  waiting  for  it  to  come 
again. 

Somewhere  very  near  him,  in  his  room,  within  the 
reach  of  his  hands,  a  strange  and  indescribable  voice 
had  cried  out  in  the  darkness  the  words  which  twice 
before  had  beat  themselves  mysteriously  into  David 
Carrigan's  brain — "Has  any  one  seen  Black  Roger 
Audemard?  Has  any  one  seen  Black  Roger 
Audemard?" 

And  David,  holding  his  breath,  listened  for  the 
sound  of  another  breath  which  he  knew  was  in  that 
room. 


IX 


T?OR  perhaps  a  minute  Carrigan  made  no  sound  that 
-*-  could  have  been  heard  three  feet  away  from  him. 
It  was  not  fear  that  held  him  quiet.  It  was  something 
which  he  could  not  explain  afterward,  the  sensation, 
perhaps,  of  one  who  feels  himself  confronted  for  a 
moment  by  a  presence  more  potent  than  that  of  flesh 
and  blood.  Black  Roger  Audcmard!  Three  times, 
twice  in  his  sickness,  some  one  had  cried  out  that 
name  in  his  ears  since  the  hour  when  St.  Pierre's  wife 
had  ambushed  him  on  the  white  carpet  of  sand.  And 
the  voice  was  now  in  his  room ! 

Was  it  Bateese,  inspired  by  some  sort  of  malformed 
humor?  Carrigan  listened.  Another  minute  passed. 
He  reached  out  a  hand  and  groped  about  him,  very 
careful  not  to  make  a  sound,  urged  by  the  feeling  that 
some  one  was  almost  within  reach  of  him.  He  flung 
back  his  blanket  and  stood  out  in  the  middle  of  the 
floor. 

Still  he  heard  no  movement,  no  soft  footfalls  of 
retreat  or  advance.  He  lighted  a  match  and  held  it 
high  above  his  head.  In  its  yellow  illumination  he 
could  see  nothing  alive.  He  lighted  a  lamp.  The  cabin 
was  empty.  He  drew  a  deep  breath  and  went  to  the 

97 


98  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

window.  It  was  still  open.  The  voice  had  undoubtedly 
come  to  him  through  that  window,  and  he  fancied  he 
could  see  where  the  screen  netting  was  crushed  a  bit 
inward,  as  though  a  face  had  pressed  heavily  against  it. 
Outside  the  night  was  beautifully  calm.  The  sky, 
washed  by  storm,  was  bright  with  stars.  But  there 
was  not  a  ripple  of  movement  that  he  could  hear. 

After  that  he  looked  at  his  watch.  He  must  have 
been  sleeping  for  some  time  when  the  voice  roused  him, 
for  it  was  nearly  three  o'clock.  In  spite  of  the  stars, 
dawn  was  close  at  hand.  When  he  looked  out  of  the 
window  again  they  were  paler  and  more  distant.  He 
had  no  intention  of  going  back  to  bed.  He  was  rest 
less  and  felt  himself  surrendering  more  and  more  to 
the  grip  of  presentiment. 

It  was  still  early,  not  later  than  six  o'clock,  when 
Bateese  came  in  with  his  breakfast.  He  was  surprised, 
as  he  had  heard  no  movement  or  sound  of  voices  to 
give  evidence  of  life  anywhere  near  the  bateau.  In 
stantly  he  made  up  his  mind  that  it  was  not  Bateese  who 
had  uttered  the  mysterious  words  of  a  few  hours  ago, 
for  the  half-breed  had  evidently  experienced  a  most 
uncomfortable  night.  He  was  like  a  rat  recently  pulled 
out  of  water.  His  clothes  hung  upon  him  sodden  and 
heavy,  his  head  kerchief  dripped,  and  his  lank  hair 
was  wet.  He  slammed  the  breakfast  things  down  on 
the  table  and  went  out  again  without  so  much  as  nod 
ding  at  his  prisoner. 

Again  a  sense  of  discomfort  and  shame  swept  over 
David,  as  he  sat  down  to  breakfast.  Here  he  was 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  99 

comfortably,  even  luxuriously,  housed,  while  out  there 
somewhere  St.  Pierre's  lovely  wife  was  drenched  and 
even  more  miserable  than  Bateese.  And  the  breakfast 
amazed  him.  It  was  not  so  much  the  caribou  tender 
loin,  rich  in  its  own  red  juice,  or  the  potato,  or  the 
pot  of  coffee  that  was  filling  the  cabin  with  its  aroma, 
that  roused  his  wonder,  but  the  hot,  brown  muffins  that 
accompanied  the  other  things.  Muffins!  And  after 
a  deluge  that  had  drowned  every  square  inch  of  the 
earth!  How  had  Bateese  turned  the  trick? 

Bateese  did  not  return  immediately  for  the  dishes, 
and  for  half  an  hour  after  he  had  finished  breakfast 
Carrigan  smoked  his  pipe  and  watched  the  blue  haze  of 
fires  on  the  far  side  of  the  river.  The  world  was  a 
blaze  of  sunlit  glory.  His  imagination  carried  him 
across  the  river.  Somewhere  over  there,  in  an  open 
spot  where  the  sun  was  blazing,  Jeanne  Marie-Anne 
was  probably  drying  herself  after  the  night  of  storm. 
There  was  but  little  doubt  in  his  mind  that  she  was 
already  heaping  the  ignominy  of  blame  upon  him.  That 
was  the  woman  of  it. 

A  knock  at  his  door  drew  him  about.  It  was  a  light, 
quick  tap,  tap,  tap — not  like  the  fist  of  either  Bateese 
or  Nepapinas.  In  another  moment  the  door  swung 
open,  and  in  the  flood  of  sunlight  that  poured  into  the 
cabin  stood  St.  Pierre's  wife! 

It  was  not  her  presence,  but  the  beauty  of  her,  that 
held  him  spellbound.  It  was  a  sort  of  shock  after  the 
vivid  imaginings  of  his  mind  in  which  he  had  seen  her 
beaten  and  tortured  by  storm.  Her  hair,  glowing  in 


ioo  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

the  sun  and  piled  up  in  shining  coils  on  the  crown  of 
her  head,  was  not  wet.  She  was  not  the  rain-beaten 
little  partridge  that  had  passed  in  tragic  bedragglement 
through  his  mind.  Storm  had  not  touched  her.  Her 
cheeks  were  soft  with  the  warm  flush  of  long  hours  of 
sleep.  When  she  came  in,  her  lips  greeting  him  with 
a  little  smile,  all  that  he  had  built  up  for  himself  in 
the  hours  of  the  night  crumbled  away  in  dust.  Again 
he  forgot  for  a  moment  that  she  was  St.  Pierre's  wife. 
She  was  woman,  and  as  he  looked  upon  her  now,  the 
most  adorable  woman  in  all  the  world. 

"You  are  better  this  morning,"  she  said.  Real 
pleasure  shone  in  her  eyes.  She  had  left  the  door  open, 
so  that  the  sun  filled  the  room.  "I  think  the  storm 
helped  you.  Wasn't  it  splendid?" 

David  swallowed  hard.  "Quite  splendid,"  he  man 
aged  to  say.  "Have  you  seen  Bateese  this  morning?" 

A  little  note  of  laughter  came  into  her  throat.  "Yes. 
I  don't  think  he  liked  it.  He  doesn't  understand  why 
I  love  storms.  Did  you  sleep  well,  M'sieu  Carrigan?" 

"An  hour  or  two,  I  think.  I  was  worrying  about 
you.  I  didn't  like  the  thought  that  I  had  turned  you 
out  into  the  storm.  But  it  doesn't  seem  to  have  touched 
you." 

"No.  I  was  there — quite  comfortable."  She  nodded 
to  the  forward  bulkhead  of  the  cabin,  beyond  the 
wardrobe  closets  and  the  piano.  "There  is  a  little  din 
ing-room  and  kitchenette  ahead,"  she  explained, 
"Didn't  Bateese  tell  you  that?" 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  101 

"No,  he  didn't.  I  asked  him  where  you  were,  and 
I  think  he  told  me  to  shut  up." 

"Bateese  is  very  odd,"  said  St.  Pierre's  wife.  "He 
is  exceedingly  jealous  of  me,  M'sieu  David.  Even 
when  I  was  a  baby  and  he  carried  me  about  in  his  arms, 
he  was  just  that  way.  Bateese,  you  know,  is  older 
than  he  appears.  He  is  fifty-one." 

She  was  moving  about,  quite  as  if  his  presence  was 
in  no  way  going  to  disturb  her  usual  duties  of  the  day. 
She  rearranged  the  damask  curtains  which  he  had 
crumpled  with  his  hands,  placed  two  or  three  chairs 
in  their  usual  places,  and  moved  from  this  to  that  with 
the  air  of  a  housewife  who  is  in  the  habit  of  brushing 
up  a  bit  in  the  morning. 

She  seemed  not  at  all  embarrassed  because  he  was  her 
prisoner,  nor  uncomfortably  restrained  because  of  the 
message  she  had  sent  to  him  by  Bateese.  She  was 
warmly  and  gloriously  human.  In  her  apparent  uncon 
cern  at  his  presence  he  found  himself  sweating  in 
wardly.  A  bit  nervously  he  struck  a  match  to  light 
his  pipe,  then  extinguished  it. 

She  noticed  what  he  had  done.  "You  may  smoke," 
she  said,  with  that  little  note  in  her  throat  which  he 
loved  to  hear,  like  the  faintest  melody  of  laughter  that 
did  not  quite  reach  her  lips.  "St.  Pierre  smokes  a  great 
deal,  and  I  like  it." 

She  opened  a  drawer  in  the  dressing-table  and  came 
to  him  with  a  box  half  rilled  with  cigars. 


102  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

"St.  Pierre  prefers  these — on  occasions,"  she  said. 
"Do  you?" 

Hi?  fingers  seemed  all  thumbs  as  he  took  a  cigar  from 
the  proffered  box.  He  cursed  himself  because  his 
tongue  leir  mick.  perhaps  it  was  his  silence,  betraying 
something  of  his  mental  clumsiness,  that  brought  a 
faint  flush  of  color  into  her  cheeks.  He  noted  that ;  and 
also  that  the  top  of  her  shining  head  came  just  about 
to  his  chin,  and  that  her  mouth  and  throat,  looking 
down  on  them,  were  bewitchingly  soft  and  sweet. 

And  what  she  said,  when  her  eyes  opened  wide  and 
beautiful  on  him  again,  was  like  a  knife  cutting  sud 
denly  into  the  heart  of  his  thoughts. 

"In  the  evening  I  love  to  sit  at  St.  Pierre's  feet  and 
watch  him  smoke,"  she  said. 

"I  am  glad  it  doesn't  annoy  you,  because — I  like  to 
smoke,"  he  replied  lamely. 

She  placed  the  box  on  the  little  reading  table  and 
looked  at  his  breakfast  things.  "You  like  muffins,  too. 
I  was  up  early  this  morning,  making  them  for  you !" 

"You  made  them?"  he  demanded,  as  if  her  words 
were  a  most  amazing  revelation  to  him. 

"Surely,  M'sieu  David.  I  make  them  every  morn 
ing  for  St.  Pierre.  He  is  very  fond  of  them.  He  says 
the  third  nicest  thing  about  me  is  my  muffins!" 

"And  the  other  two?"  asked  David. 

"Are  St.  Pierre's  little  secrets,  m'sieu,"  she  laughed 
softly,  the  color  deepening  in  her  cheeks.  "It  wouldn't 
be  fair  to  tell  you,  would  it?" 

"Perhaps  it  wouldn't,"  he  said  slowly.     "But  there 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  103 

are  one  or  two  other  things,  Mrs. — Mrs.  Boulain " 

"You  may  call  me  Jeanne,  or  Marie-Anne,  if  you 
care  to,"  she  interrupted  him.  "It  will  be  quite  all 
right." 

She  was  picking  up  the  breakfast  dishes,  not  at  all 
perturbed  by  the  fact  that  she  was  offering  him  a  privi 
lege  which  had  the  effect  of  quickening  his  pulse  for  a 
moment  or  two. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said.  "I  don't  mind  telling  you  it 
is  going  to  be  difficult  for  me  to  do  that — because — 
well,  this  is  a  most  unusual  situation,  isn't  it?  In  spite 
of  all  your  kindness,  including  what  was  probably  your 
good-intentioned  endeavor  to  put  an  end  to  my  earthly 
miseries  behind  the  rock,  I  believe  it  is  necessary  for 
you  to  give  me  some  kind  of  explanation.  Don't  you?" 

"Didn't  Bateese  explain  to  you  last  night?"  she 
asked,  facing  him. 

"He  brought  a  message  from  you  to  the  effect  that 
I  was  a  prisoner,  that  I  must  make  no  attempt  to  es 
cape,  and  that  if  I  did  try  to  escape,  you  had  given  your 
men  instructions  to  kill  me." 

She  nodded,  quite  seriously.  "That  is  right,  M'sieu 
David." 

His  face  flamed.  "Then  I  am  a  prisoner?  You 
threaten  me  with  death?" 

"I  shall  treat  you  very  nicely  if  you  make  no  attempt 
to  escape,  M'sieu  David.  Isn't  that  fair?" 

"Fair!"  he  cried,  choking  back  an  explosion  that 
would  have  vented  itself  on  a  man.  "Don't  you  realize 
wliat  has  happened?  Don't  you  know  that  according 


104  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

to  every  law  of  God  and  man  I  should  arrest  you  and 
give  you  over  to  the  Law  ?  Is  it  possible  that  you  don't 
comprehend  my  own  duty?  What  I  must  do?" 

If  he  had  noticed,  he  would  have  seen  that  there  was 
no  longer  the  flush  of  color  in  her  cheeks.  But  her 
eyes,  looking  straight  at  him,  were  tranquil  and  unex- 
cited.  She  nodded. 

"That  is  why  you  must  remain  a  prisoner,  M'sieu 
David.  It  is  because  I  do  realize.  I  shall  not  tell  you 
why  that  happened  behind  the  rock,  and  if  you  ask  me, 
I  shall  refuse  to  talk  to  you.  If  I  let  you  go  now,  you 
would  probably  have  me  arrested  and  put  in  jail.  So 
I  must  keep  you  until  St.  Pierre  comes.  I  don't  know 
what  to  do — except  to  keep  you,  and  not  let  you  es 
cape  until  then.  What  would  you  do  ?" 

The  question  was  so  honest,  so  like  a  question  that 
might  have  been  asked  by  a  puzzled  child,  that  his  argu 
ment  for  the  Law  was  struck  dead.  He  stared  into 
the  pale  face,  the  beautiful,  waiting  eyes,  saw  the 
pathetic  intertwining  of  her  slim  fingers,  and  suddenly 
he  was  grinning  in  that  big,  honest  way  which  made 
people  love  Dave  Carrigan. 

"You're — doing — absolutely — right,"  he  said. 

A  swift  change  came  in  her  face.  Her  cheeks 
flushed.  Her  eyes  filled  with  a  sudden  glow  that  made 
the  little  violet- freckles  in  them  dance  like  tiny  flecks 
of  gold. 

"From  your  point  of  view  you  are  right,"  he  re 
peated,  "and  I  shall  make  no  attempt  to  escape  until 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  105 

I  have  talked  with  St.  Pierre.  But  I  can't  quite  see — 
just  now — how  he  is  going  to  help  the  situation." 

"He  will,"  she  assured  him  confidently. 

"You  seem  to  have  an  unlimited  faith  in  St.  Pierre," 
he  replied  a  little  grimly. 

"Yes,  M'sieu  David.  He  is  the  most  wonderful 
man  in  the  world.  And  he  will  know  what  to  do." 

David  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Perhaps,  in  some 
nice,  quiet  place,  he  will  follow  the  advice  Bateese  gave 
you — tie  a  stone  round  my  neck  and  sink  me  to  the 
bottom  of  the  river." 

"Perhaps.  But  I  don't  think  he  will  do  that.  I 
should  object  to  it." 

"Oh,  you  would !" 

"Yes.  St.  Pierre  is  big  and  strong,  afraid  of  noth 
ing  in  the  world,  but  he  will  do  anything  for  me.  I 
don't  think  he  would  kill  you  if  I  asked  him  not  to." 
She  turned  to  resume  her  task  of  cleaning  up  the 
breakfast  things. 

With  a  sudden  movement  David  swung  one  of  the' 
big  chairs  close  to  her.  "Please  sit  down,"  he  com 
manded.  "I  can  talk  to  you  better  that  way.  As  an 
officer  of  the  law  it  is  my  duty  to  ask  you  a  few  ques 
tions.  It  rests  in  your  power  to  answer  all  of  them 
or  none  of  them.  I  have  given  you  my  word  not  to 
act  until  I  have  seen  St.  Pierre,  and  I  shall  keep  that 
promise.  But  when  we  do  meet  I  shall  act  largely  on 
the  strength  of  what  you  tell  me  during  the  next  ten 
minutes.  Please  sit  down !" 


X 


TN  that  big,  deep  chair  which  must  have  been  St. 
Pierre's  own,  Marie-Anne  sat  facing  Carrigan. 
Between  its  great  arms  her  slim  little  figure  seemed 
diminutive  and  out  of  place.  Her  brown  eyes  were 
level  and  clear,  waiting.  They  were  not  warm  or 
nervous,  but  so  coolly  and  calmly  beautiful  that  they 
disturbed  Carrigan.  She  raised  her  hands,  her  slim 
fingers  crumpling  for  a  moment  in  the  soft,  thick  coils 
of  her  hair.  That  little  movement,  the  unconscious 
feminism  of  it,  the  way  she  folded  her  hands  in  her 
lap  afterward,  disturbed  Carrigan  even  more.  What 
a  glory  on  earth  it  must  be  to  possess  a  woman  like 
that !  The  thought  made  him  uneasy.  And  she  sat 
waiting,  a  vivid,  softly-breathing  question-mark  against 
the  warm  coloring  of  the  upholstered  chair. 

"When  you  shot  me,"  he  began,  "I  saw  you,  first, 
standing  over  me.  I  thought  you  had  come  to  finish 
me.  It  was  then  that  I  saw  something  in  your  face — 
horror,  amazement,  as  though  you  had  done  some 
thing  you  did  not  know  you  were  doing.  You  see,  I 
want  to  be  charitable.  I  want  to  understand.  I  want 
to  excuse  you  if  I  can.  Won't  you  tell  me  why  you 

106 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  107 

shot  me,  and  why  that  change  came  over  you  when  you 
saw  me  lying  there?" 

"No,  M'sieu  David,  I  shall  not  tell."  She  was  not 
antagonistic  or  defiant.  Her  voice  was  not  raised,  nor 
did  it  betray  an  unusual  emotion.  It  was  simply  de 
cisive,  and  the  unflinching  steadiness  of  her  eyes  and 
the  way  in  which  she  sat  with  her  hands  folded  gave 
to  it  an  unqualified  definiteness. 

"You  mean  that  I  must  make  my  own  guess?" 

She  nodded. 

"Or  get  it  out  of  St.  Pierre?" 

"If  St.  Pierre  wishes  to  tell  you,  yes." 

"Well "  He  leaned  a  little  toward  her.  "After 

that  you  dragged  me  up  into  the  shade,  dressed  my 
wound  and  made  me  comfortable.  In  a  hazy  sort  of 
way  I  knew  what  was  going  on.  And  a  curious  thing 
happened.  At  times — "  he  leaned  still  a  little  nearer 
to  her — "at  times — there  seemed  to  be  two  of  you !" 

He  was  not  looking  at  her  hands,  or  he  would  have 
seen  her  fingers  slowly  tighten  in  her  lap. 

"You  were  badly  hurt,"  she  said,  "It  is  not  strange 
that  you  should  have  imagined  things,  M'sieu  David." 

"And  I  seemed  to  hear  two  voices,"  he  went  on. 

She  made  no  answer,  but  continued  to  look  at  him 
steadily. 

"And  the  other  had  hair  that  was  like  copper  and 
gold  fire  in  the  sun.  I  would  see  your  face  and  then 
hers,  again  and  again — and — since  then — I  have 


io8  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

thought  I  was  a  heavy  load  for  your  hands  to  drag 
up  through  that  sand  to  the  shade  alone." 

She  held  up  her  two  hands,  looking  at  them.  "They 
are  strong,"  she  said. 

"They  are  small,"  he  insisted,  "and  I  doubt  if  they 
could  drag  me  across  this  floor." 

For  the  first  time  the  quiet  of  her  eyes  gave  way  to 
a  warm  fire.  "It  was  hard  work,"  she  said,  and  the 
note  in  her  voice  gave  him  warning  that  he  was  ap 
proaching  the  dead-line  again.  "Bateese  says  I  was 
a  fool  for  doing  it.  And  if  you  saw  two  of  me,  or 
three  or  four,  it  doesn't  matter.  Are  you  through 
questioning  me,  M'sieu  David?  If  so,  I  have  a  num 
ber  of  things  to  do." 

He  made  a  gesture  of  despair.  "No,  I  am  not 
through.  But  why  ask  you  questions  if  you  won't 
answer  them?" 

"I  simply  can  not.    You  must  wait." 

"For  your  husband?" 

"Yes,  for  St.  Pierre." 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment,  then  said,  "I  raved 
about  a  number  of  things  when  I  was  sick,  didn't  I  ?" 

"You  did,  and  especially  about  what  you  thought 
happened  in  the  sand.  You  called  this — this  other  per 
son — the  Fire  Goddess.  You  were  so  near  dying  that 
of  course  it  wasn't  amusing.  Otherwise  it  would  have 
been.  You  see  my  hair  is  black,  almost!"  Again,  in 
a  quick  movement,  her  fingers  were  crumpling  the 
lustrous  coils  on  the  crown  of  her  head. 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  109 

"Why  do  you  say  'almost'  ?"  he  asked. 

"Because  St.  Pierre  has  often  told  me  that  when  I 
am  in  the  sun  there  are  red  fires  in  it.  And  the  sun 
was  very  bright  that  afternoon  in  the  sand,  M'sieu 
David." 

"I  think  I  understand,"  he  nodded.  "And  I'm  rather 
glad,  too.  I  like  to  know  that  it  was  you  who  dragged 
me  up  into  the  shade  after  trying  to  kill  me.  It  proves 
you  aren't  quite  so  savage  as " 

"Carmin  Fanchet,"  she  interrupted  him  softly. 
"You  talked  about  her  in  your  sickness,  M'sieu  David. 
It  made  me  terribly  afraid  of  you — so  much  so  that 
at  times  I  almost  wondered  if  Bateese  wasn't  right.  It 
made  me  understand  what  would  happen  to  me  if  I 
should  let  you  go.  What  terrible  thing  did  she  do  to 
you?  What  could  she  have  done  more  terrible  than 
I  have  done?'' 

"Is  that  why  you  have  given  your  men  orders  to  kill 
me  if  I  try  to  escape?"  he  asked.  "Because  I  talked 
about  this  woman,  Carmin  Fanchet?" 

"Yes,  it  is  because  of  Carmin  Fanchet  that  I  am 
keeping  you  for  St.  Pierre,"  she  acknowledged.  "If 
you  had  no  mercy  for  her,  you  could  have  none  for 
me.  What  terrible  thing  did  she  do  to  you,  M'sieu?" 

"Nothing — to  me,"  he  said,  feeling  that  she  was  put 
ting  him  where  the  earth  was  unsteady  under  his  feet 
again.  "But  her  brother  was  a  criminal  of  the  worst 
sort.  And  I  was  convinced  then,  and  am  convinced 
now,  that  his  sister  was  a  partner  in  his  crimes.  She 


I  io  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

was  very  beautiful.  And  that,  I  think,  was  what 
saved  her." 

He  was  fingering  his  unlighted  cigar  as  he  spoke. 
When  he  looked  up,  he  was  surprised  at  the  swift 
change  that  had  come  into  the  face  of  St.  Pierre's  wife. 
Her  cheeks  were  flaming,  and  there  were  burning  fires 
screened  behind  the  long  lashes  of  her  eyes.  But  her 
voice  was  unchanged.  It  was  without  a  quiver  that 
betrayed  the  emotion  which  had  sent  the  hot  flush  into 
her  face. 

"Then — you  judged  her  without  absolute  knowledge 
of  fact?  You  judged  her — as  you  hinted  in  your 
fever — because  she  fought  so  desperately  to  save  a 
brother  who  had  gone  wrong?" 

"I  believe  she  was  bad." 

The  long  lashes  fell  lower,  like  fringes  of  velvet 
closing  over  the  fires  in  her  eyes.  "But  you  didn't 
know!" 

"Not  absolutely,"  he  conceded.  "But  investiga 
tions " 

"Might  have  shown  her  to  be  one  of  the  most  won 
derful  women  that  ever  lived,  M'sieu  David.  It  is  not 
hard  to  fight  for  a  good  brother — but  if  he  is  bad,  it 
may  take  an  angel  to  do  it!" 

He  stared,  thoughts  tangling  themselves  in  his  head. 
A  slow  shame  crept  over  him.  She  had  cornered  him. 
She  had  convicted  him  of  unfairness  to  the  one  creature 
on  earth  his  strength  and  his  manhood  were  bound  to 
protect — a  woman.  She  had  convicted  him  of  judging 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  in 

without  fact.  And  in  his  head  a  voice  seemed  to  cry 
out  to  him,  "What  did  Carmin  Fanchet  ever  do  to 
you?" 

He  rose  suddenly  to  his  feet  and  stood  at  the  back  of 
his  chair,  his  hands  gripping  the  top  of  it.  "Maybe 
you  are  right,"  he  said.  "Maybe  I  was  wrong.  I 
remember  now  that  when  I  got  Fanchet  I  manacled 
him,  and  she  sat  beside  him  all  through  that  first  night. 
I  didn't  intend  to  sleep,  but  I  was  tired — and  did.  I 
must  have  slept  for  an  hour,  and  she  roused  me — 
trying  to  get  the  key  to  the  handcuffs.  She  had  the 
opportunity  then — to  kill  me." 

Triumph  swept  over  the  face  that  was  looking  up 
at  him.  "Yes,  she  could  have  killed  you — while  you 
slept.  But  she  didn't.  Whyf" 

"I  don't  know.  Perhaps  she  had  the  idea  of  getting 
the  key  and  letting  her  brother  do  the  job.  Two  or 
three  days  later  I  am  convinced  she  would  not  have 
hesitated.  I  caught  her  twice  trying  to  steal  my  gun. 
And  a  third  time,  late  at  night,  when  we  were  within 
a  day  or  two  of  Athabasca  Landing,  she  almost  got 
me  with  a  club.  So  I  concede  that  she  never  did  any 
thing  very  terrible  to  me.  But  I  am  sure  that  she  tried, 
especially  toward  the  last." 

"And  because  she  failed,  she  hated  you ;  and  because 
she  hated  you,  something  was  warped  inside  you,  and 
you  made  up  your  mind  she  should  be  punished  along 
with  her  brother.  You  didn't  look  at  it  from  a  woman's 
viewpoint.  A  woman  will  fight,  and  kill,  to  save  one 


112  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

she  loves.  She  tried,  perhaps,  and  failed.  The  result 
was  that  her  brother  was  killed  by  the  Law.  Was  not 
that  enough?  Was  it  fair  or  honest  to  destroy  her 
simply  because  you  thought  she  might  be  a  partner  in 
her  brother's  crimes?" 

"It  is  rather  strange,"  he  replied,  a  moment  of  in*- 
decision  in  his  voice.  "McVane,  the  superintendent, 
asked  me  that  same  question.  I  thought  he  was  touched 
by  her  beauty.  And  I'm  sorry — very  sorry — that  I 
talked  about  her  when  I  was  sick.  I  don't  want  you 
to  think  I  am  a  bad  sort — that  way.  I'm  going  to  think 
about  it.  I'm  going  over  the  whole  thing  again,  from 
the  time  I  manacled  Fanchet,  and  if  I  find  that  I  was 
wrong — and  I  ever  meet  Carmin  Fanchet  again — I 
shall  not  be  ashamed  to  get  down  on  my  knees  and  ask 
her  pardon,  Marie-Anne !" 

For  the  first  time  he  spoke  the  name  which  she  had 
given  him  permission  to  use.  And  she  noticed  it.  He 
could  not  help  seeing  that — a  flashing  instant  in  which 
the  indefinable  confession  of  it  was  in  her  face,  as 
though  his  use  of  it  had  surprised  her,  or  pleased  her, 
or  both.  Then  it  was  gone. 

She  did  not  answer,  but  rose  from  the  big  chair,  and 
went  to  the  window,  and  stood  with  her  back  toward 
him,  looking  out  over  the  river.  And  then,  suddenly, 
they  heard  a  voice.  It  was  the  voice  he  had  heard 
twice  in  his  sickness,  the  voice  that  had  roused  him 
from  his  sleep  last  night,  crying  out  in  his  room  for 
Black  Roger  Audemard.  It  came  to  him  distinctly 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  113 

through  the  open  door  in  a  low  and  moaning  monotone. 
He  had  not  taken  his  eyes  from  the  slim  figure  of  St. 
Pierre's  wife,  and  he  saw  a  little  tremor  pass  through 
her  now. 

"I  heard  that  voice — again — last  night,"  said  David. 
"It  was  in  this  cabin,  asking  for  Black  Roger 
Audemard." 

She  did  not  seem  to  hear  him,  and  he  also  turned  so 
that  he  was  looking  at  the  open  door  of  the  cabin. 

The  sun,  pouring  through  in  a  golden  flood,  was  all 
at  once  darkened,  and  in  the  doorway — framed  vividly 
against  the  day — was  the  figure  of  a  man.  A  tense 
breath  came  to  Carrigan's  lips.  At  first  he  felt  a  shock, 
then  an  overwhelming  sense  of  curiosity  and  of  pity. 
The  man  was  terribly  deformed.  His  back  and 
massive  shoulders  were  so  twisted  and  bent  that  he 
stood  no  higher  than  a  twelve-year-old  boy  ^  yet  stand 
ing  straight,  he  would  have  been  six  feet  tall  if  an 
inch,  and  splendidly  proportioned.  And  in  that  same 
breath  with  which  shock  and  pity  came  to  him,  David 
knew  that  it  was  accident  and  not  birth  that  had  mal 
formed  the  great  body  that  stood  like  a  crouching 
animal  in  the  open  door.  At  first  he  saw  only  the 
grotesqueness  of  it — the  long  arms  that  almost  touched 
the  floor,  the  broken  back,  the  twisted  shoulders — and 
then,  with  a  deeper  thrill,  he  saw  nothing  of  these 
things  but  only  the  face  and  the  head  of  the  man.  There 
was  something  god-like  about  them,  fastened  there 
between  the  crippled  shoulders.  It  was  not  beauty,  but 


114  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

strength — the  strength  of  rock,  of  carven  granite,  as  if 
each  feature  had  been  chiseled  out  of  something  im 
perishable  and  everlasting,  yet  lacking  strangely  and 
mysteriously  the  warm  illumination  that  comes  from  a 
living  soul.  The  man  was  not  old,  nor  was  he  young. 
And  he  did  not  seem  to  see  Carrigan,  who  stood  nearest 
to  him.  He  was  looking  at  St.  Pierre's  wife. 

The  look  which  David  saw  in  her  face  was  infinitely 
tender.  She  was  smiling  at  the  misshapen  hulk  in 
the  door  as  she  might  have  smiled  at  a  little  child. 
And  David,  looking  back  at  the  wide,  deep-set  eyes 
of  the  man,  saw  the  slumbering  fire  of  a  dog-like  wor 
ship  in  them.  They  shifted  slowly,  taking  in  the 
cabin,  questing,  seeking,  searching  for  something 
which  they  could  not  find.  The  lips  moved,  and  again 
he  heard  that  weird  and  mysterious  monotone,  as  if 
the  plaintive  voice  of  a  child  were  coming  out  of  the 
huge  frame  of  the  man,  crying  out  as  it  had  cried  last 
night,  "Has-any-onc-seen-Black-Rogcr-A udcmard?" 

In  another  moment  St.  Pierre's  wife  was  at  the  de 
formed  giant's  side.  She  seemed  tall  beside  him.  She 
put  her  hands  to  his  head  and  brushed  back  the  grizzled 
black  hair,  laughing  softly  into  his  upturned  face,  her 
eyes  shining  and  a  strange  glow  in  her  cheeks.  Carri 
gan,  looking  at  them,  felt  his  heart  stand  still.  Was 
that  man  St.  Pierre?  The  thought  came  like  a  light 
ning  flash — and  went  as  quickly ;  it  was  impossible  and 
inconceivable.  And  yet  there  was  something  more  than 
pity  in  the  voice  of  the  woman  who  was  speaking  now. 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  115 

"No,  no,  we  have  not  seen  him,  Andre — we  have  not 
seen  Black  Roger  Audemard.  If  he  comes,  I  will  call 
you.  I  promise,  Michiwan.  I  will  call  you!" 

She  was  stroking  his  bearded  cheek,  and  then  she 
put  an  arm  about  his  twisted  shoulders,  and  slowly  she 
turned  so  that  in  a  moment  or  two  they  were  facing 
the  sun — and  it  seemed  to  Carrigan  that  she  was  talk 
ing  and  sobbing  and  laughing  in  the  same  breath,  as 
that  great,  broken  hulk  of  a  man  moved  out  slowly 
from  under  the  caress  of  her  arm  and  went  on  his  way. 
For  a  space  she  looked  after  him.  Then  in  a  swift 
movement  she  closed  the  door  and  faced  Carrigan. 
She  did  not  speak,  but  waited.  Her  head  was  high. 
She  was  breathing  quickly.  The  tenderness  that  a 
moment  before  had  filled  her  face  was  gone,  and  in  her 
eyes  was  the  blaze  of  fighting  fires  as  she  waited  for 
him  to  speak — to  give  voice  to  what  she  knew  was 
passing  in  his  mind. 


XI 


T?OR  a  space  there  was  silence  between  Carrigan  and 
•*•  St.  Pierre's  wife.  He  knew  what  she  was  think 
ing  as  she  stood  with  her  back  to  the  door,  waiting 
half  defiantly,  her  cheeks  still  flushed,  her  eyes  bright 
with  the  anticipation  of  battle.  She  was  ready  to  fight 
for  the  broken  creature  on  the  other  side  of  the  door. 
She  expected  him  to  give  no  quarter  in  his  questioning 
of  her,  to  corner  her  if  he  could,  to  demand  of  her 
why  the  deformed  giant  had  spoken  the  name  of  the 
man  he  was  after,  Black  Roger  Audemard.  The  truth 
hammered  in  David's  brain.  It  had  not  been  a  delusion 
of  his  fevered  mind  after  all ;  it  was  not  a  possible  de 
ception  of  the  half-breed's,  as  he  had  thought  last  night. 
Chance  had  brought  him  face  to  face  with  the  mystery 
of  Black  Roger.  St.  Pierre's  wife,  waiting  for  him 
to  speak,  was  in  some  way  associated  with  that  mys 
tery,  and  the  cripple  was  asking  for  the  man  McVane 
had  told  him  to  bring  in  dead  or  alive  !  Yet  he  did  not 
question  her.  He  turned  to  the  window  and  looked  out 
from  where  Marie-Anne  had  stood  a  few  moments 
before. 

The  day  was  glorious.    On  the  far  shore  he  saw  life 
where  last  night's  camp  had  been.    Men  were  moving 

116 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  117 

about  close  to  the  water,  and  a  York  boat  was  putting 
out  slowly  into  the  stream.  Close  under  the  window 
moved  a  canoe  with  a  single  occupant.  It  was  Andre, 
the  Broken  Man.  With  powerful  strokes  he  was  pad 
dling  across  the  river.  His  deformity  was  scarcely  no 
ticeable  in  the  canoe.  His  bare  head  and  black  beard 
shone  in  the  sun,  and  between  his  great  shoulders  his 
head  looked  more  than  ever  to  Carrigan  like  the  head 
of  a  carven  god.  And  this  man,  like  a  mighty  tree 
stricken  by  lightning,  his  mind  gone,  was  yet  a  thing 
that  was  more  than  mere  flesh  and  blood  to  Marie- 
Anne  Boulain! 

David  turned  toward  her.  Her  attitude  was  changed. 
It  was  no  longer  one  of  proud  defiance.  She  had  ex 
pected  to  defend  herself  from  something,  and  he  had 
given  her  no  occasion  for  defense.  She  did  not  try 
to  hide  the  fact  from  him,  and  he  nodded  toward  the 
window. 

"He  is  going  away  in  a  canoe.  I  am  afraid  you 
didn't  want  me  to  see  him,  and  I  am  sorry  I  happened 
to  be  here  when  he  came." 

"I  made  no  effort  to  keep  him  away,  M'sieu  David. 
Perhaps  I  wanted  you  to  see  him.  And  I  thought, 
when  you  did "  She  hesitated. 

"You  expected  me  to  crucify  you,  if  necessary,  to 
learn  the  truth  of  whit  he  knows  about  Roger  Aude- 
mard,"  he  said.  "And  you  were  ready  to  fight  back. 
But  I  am  not  going  to  question  you  unless  you  give 
me  permission." 


Ii8  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

"I  am  glad,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice.  "I  am  begin 
ning  to  have  faith  in  you,  M'sieu  David.  You  have 
promised  not  to  try  to  escape,  and  I  believe  you.  Will 
you  also  promise  not  to  ask  me  questions,  which  I  can 
not  answer — until  St.  Pierre  comes?" 

"I  will  try." 

She  came  up  to  him  slowly  and  stood  facing  him, 
so  near  that  she  could  have  reached  out  and  put  her 
hands  on  his  shoulders. 

"St.  Pierre  has  told  me  a  great  deal  about  the  Scarlet 
Police,"  she  said,  looking  at  him  quietly  and  steadily. 
"He  says  that  the  men  who  wear  the  red  jackets  never 
play  low  tricks,  and  that  they  come  after  a  man  squarely 
and  openly.  He  says  they  are  men,  and  many  times 
he  has  told  me  wonderful  stories  of  the  things  they 
have  done.  He  calls  it  'playing  the  game.'  And  I'm 
going  to  ask  you,  M'sieu  David,  will  you  play  square 
with  me?  If  I  give  you  the  freedom  of  the  bateau, 
of  the  boats,  even  of  the  shore,  will  you  wait  for  St. 
Pierre  and  play  the  rest  of  the  game  out  with  him, 
man  to  man?" 

Carrigan  bowed  his  head  slightly.  "Yes,  I  \vill  wait 
and  finish  the  game  with  St.  Pierre." 

He  saw  a  quick  throb  come  and  go  in  her  white 
throat,  and  with  a  sudden,  impulsive  movement  she 
held  out  her  hand  to  him.  For  a  moment  he  held  it 
close.  Her  little  fingers  tightened  about  his  own,  and 
the  warm  thrill  of  them  set  his  blood  leaping  with  the 
thing  he  was  fighting  <k>wn.  She  was  so  near  that  he 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  119 

could  feel  the  throb  of  her  body.  For  an  instant  she 
bowed  her  head,  and  the  sweet  perfume  of  her  hair 
was  in  his  nostrils,  the  lustrous  beauty  of  it  close  under 
his  lips. 

Gently  she  withdrew  her  hand  and  stood  back  from 
him.  To  Carrigan  she  was  like  a  young  girl  now.  It 
was  the  loveliness  of  girlhood  he  saw  in  the  flush  of 
her  face  and  in  the  gladness  that  was  flaming  un 
ashamed  in  her  eyes. 

"I  am  not  frightened  any  more,"  she  exclaimed,  her 
voice  trembling  a  bit.  "When  St.  Pierre  comes,  I  shall 
tell  him  everything.  And  then  you  may  ask  the  ques 
tions,  and  he  will  answer.  And  he  will  not  cheat !  He 
will  play  square.  You  will  love  St.  Pierre,  and  you 
will  forgive  me  for  what  happened  behind  the  rock!" 

She  made  a  little  gesture  toward  the  door.  "Every 
thing  is  free  to  you  out  there  now,"  she  added.  "I 
shall  tell  Bateese  and  the  others.  When  we  are  tied 
up,  you  may  go  ashore.  And  we  will  forget  all  that 
has  happened,  M'sieu  David.  We  will  forget  until  St. 
Pierre  comes." 

"St.  Pierre!"  he  groaned.  "If  there  were  no  St. 
Pierre!" 

"I  should  be  lost,"  she  broke  in  quickly.  "I  should 
want  to  die !" 

Through  the  open  window  came  the  sound  of  a 
voice.  It  was  the  weird  monotone  of  Andre,  the 
Broken  Man.  Marie-Anne  went  to  the  window.  And 
David,  following  her,  looked  over  her  head,  again  so 


120  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

near  that  his  lips  almost  touched  her  hair.  Andre  had 
come  back.  He  was  watching  two  York  boats  that 
were  heading  for  the  bateau. 

"You  heard  him  asking  for  Black  Roger  Audemard," 
she  said.  "It  is  strange.  I  know  how  it  must  have 
shocked  you  when  he  stood  like  that  in  the  door.  His 
mind,  like  his  body,  is  a  wreck,  M'sieu  David.  Years 
ago,  after  a  great  storm,  St.  Pierre  found  him  in  the 
forest.  A  tree  had  fallen  on  him.  St.  Pierre  carried 
him  in  on  his  shoulders.  He  lived,  but  he  has  always 
been  like  that.  St.  Pierre  loves  him,  and  poor  Andre 
worships  St.  Pierre  and  follows  him  about  like  a  dog. 
His  brain  is  gone.  He  does  not  know  what  his  name 
is,  and  we  call  him  Andre.  And  always,  day  and  night, 
he  is  asking  that  same  question,  'Has  any  one  seen 
Black  Roger  Audemard?'  Sometime — if  you  will, 
M'sieu  David — I  should  like  to  have  you  tell  me  what 
it  is  so  terrible  that  you  know  about  Roger  Audemard." 

The  York  boats  were  half-way  across  the  river,  and 
from  them  came  a  sudden  burst  of  wild  song.  David 
could  make  out  six  men  in  each  boat,  their  oars  flash 
ing  in  the  morning  sun  to  the  rhythm  of  their  chant. 
Marie-Anne  looked  up  at  him  suddenly,  and  in  her  face 
and  eyes  he  saw  what  the  starry  gloom  of  evening  had 
half  hidden  from  him  in  those  thrilling  moments  when 
they  shot  through  the  rapids  of  the  Holy  Ghost.  She 
was  girl  now.  He  did  not  think  of  her  as  woman.  He 
did  not  think  of  her  as  St.  Pierre's  wife.  In  that  up 
ward  glance  of  her  eyes  was  something  that  thrilled 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  121 

him  to  the  depth  of  his  soul.  She  seemed,  for  a  mo 
ment,  to  have  dropped  a  curtain  from  between  herself 
and  him. 

Her  red  lips  trembled,  she  smiled  at  him,  and  then 
she  faced  the  river  again,  and  he  leaned  a  little  for 
ward,  so  that  a  breath  of  wind  floated  a  shimmering 
tress  of  her  hair  against  his  cheek.  An  irresistible  im 
pulse  seized  upon  him.  He  leaned  still  nearer  to  her, 
holding  his  breath,  until  his  lips  softly  touched  one  of 
the  velvety  coils  of  her  hair.  And  then  he  stepped 
back.  Shame  swept  over  him.  His  heart  rose  and 
choked  him,  and  his  fists  were  clenched  at  his  side. 
She  had  not  noticed  what  he  had  done,  and  she  seemed 
to  him  like  a  bird  yearning  to  fly  out  through  the  win 
dow,  throbbing  with  the  desire  to  answer  the  chanting 
song  that  came  over  the  water.  And  then  she  was 
smiling  up  again  into  his  face  hardened  with  the  strug 
gle  which  he  was  making  with  himself. 

"My  people  are  happy,"  she  cried.  "Even  in  storm 
they  laugh  and  sing.  Listen,  nvsieu.  They  are  sing 
ing  La  Dernier e  Domaine.  That  is  our  song.  It  is 
what  we  call  our  home,  away  up  there  in  the  lost  wil 
derness  where  people  never  come — the  Last  Domain. 
Their  wives  and  sweethearts  and  families  are  up  there, 
and  they  are  happy  in  knowing  that  today  we  shall 
travel  a  few  miles  nearer  to  them.  They  are  not  like 
your  people  in  Montreal  and  Ottawa  and  Quebec, 
M'sieu  David.  They  are  like  children.  And  yet  they 
are  glorious  children!" 


122  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

She  ran  to  the  wall  and  took  down  the  banner  of 
St.  Pierre  Boulain.  "St.  Pierre  is  behind  us,"  she  ex 
plained.  "He  is  coming  down  with  a  raft  of  timber 
such  as  we  can  not  get  in  our  country,  and  we  are 
waiting  for  him.  But  each  day  we  must  float  down 
with  the  stream  a  few  miles  nearer  the  homes  of  my 
people.  It  makes  them  happier,  even  though  it  is  but 
a  few  miles.  They  are  coming  now  for  my  bateau. 
We  shall  travel  slowly,  and  it  will  be  wonderful  on  a 
day  like  this.  It  will  do  you  good  to  come  outside, 
M'sieu  David — with  me.  Would  you  care  for  that? 
Or  would  you  rather  be  alone  ?" 

In  her  face  there  was  no  longer  the  old  restraint. 
On  her  lips  was  the  witchery  of  a  half-smile;  in  her 
eyes  a  glow  that  flamed  the  blood  in  his  veins.  It  was 
not  a  flash  of  coquetry.  It  was  something  deeper  and 
warmer  than  that,  something  real — a  new  Marie- Anne 
Boulain  telling  him  plainly  that  she  wanted  him  to 
come.  He  did  not  know  that  his  hands  were  still 
clenched  at  his  side.  Perhaps  she  knew.  But  her  eyes 
did  not  leave  his  face,  eyes  that  were  repeating  the 
invitation  of  her  lips,  openly  asking  him  not  to  refuse. 

"I  shall  be  happy  to  come,''  he  said. 

The  words  fell  out  of  him  numbly.  He  scarcely 
heard  them  or  knew  what  he  was  saying,  yet  he  was 
conscious  of  the  unnatural  note  in  his  voice.  He  did 
not  know  he  was  betraying  himself  beyond  that,  did  not 
see  the  deepening  of  the  wild-rose  flush  in  the  cheeks 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  123 

of  St.  Pierre's  wife.  He  picked  up  his  pipe  from  the 
table  and  moved  to  accompany  her. 

"You  must  wait  a  little  while,"  she  said,  and  her 
hand  rested  for  an  instant  upon  his  arm.  Its  touch  was 
as  light  as  the  touch  of  his  lips  had  been  against  her 
shining  hair,  but  he  felt  it  in  every  nerve  of  his  body. 
"Nepapinas  is  making  a  special  lotion  for  your  hurt.  I 
will  send  him  in,  and  then  you  may  come." 

The  wild  chant  of  the  rivermen  was  near  as  she 
turned  to  the  door.  From  it  she  looked  back  at  him 
swiftly. 

"They  are  happy,  M'sieu  David,"  she  repeated  softly. 
"And  I,  too,  am  happy.  I  am  no  longer  afraid.  And 
the  world  is  beautiful  again.  Can  you  guess  why? 
It  is  because  you  have  given  me  your  promise,  M'sieu 
David,  and  because  I  believe  you!" 

And  then  she  was  gone. 

For  many  minutes  he  did  not  move.  The  chanting 
of  the  rivermen,  a  sudden  wilder  shout,  the  voices  of 
men,  and  after  that  the  grating  of  something  along 
side  the  bateau  came  to  him  like  sounds  from  another 
world.  Within  himself  there  was  a  crash  greater  than 
that  of  physical  things.  It  was  the  truth  breaking  upon 
him,  truth  surging  over  him  like  the  waves  of  a  sea, 
breaking  down  the  barriers  he  had  set  up,  inundating 
him  with  a  force  that  was  mightier  than  his  own  will. 
A  voice  in  his  soul  was  crying  out  the  truth — that 
above  all  else  in  the  world  he  wanted  to  reach  out  his 
arms  to  this  glorious  creature  who  was  the  wife  of 


124  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

St.  Pierre,  this  woman  who  had  tried  to  kill  him  and 
was  sorry.  He  knew  that  it  was  not  desire  for 
beauty.  It  was  the  worship  which  St.  Pierre  him 
self  must  have  for  this  woman  who  was  his  wife.  And 
the  shock  of  it  was  like  a  conflagration  sweeping 
through  him,  leaving  him  dead  and  shriven,  like  the 
crucified  trees  standing  in  the  wake  of  a  fire.  A  breath 
that  was  almost  a  cry  came  from  him,  and  his  fists 
knotted  until  they  were  purple.  She  was  St.  Pierre's 
wife!  And  he,  David  Carrigan,  proud  of  his  honor, 
proud  of  the  strength  that  made  him  man,  had  dared 
covet  her  in  this  hour  when  her  husband  was  gone! 
He  stared  at  the  closed  door,  beginning  to  cry  out 
against  himself,  and  over  him  there  swept  slowly  and 
terribly  another  thing — the  shame  of  his  weakness,  the 
hopelessness  of  the  thing  that  for  a  space  had  eaten 
into  him  and  consumed  him. 

And  as  he  stared,  the  door  opened,  and  Nepapinas 
came  in. 


XII 


TOURING  the  next  quarter  of  an  hour  David  was  as 
•^"^  silent  as  the  old  Indian  doctor.  He  was  conscious 
of  no  pain  when  Nepapinas  took  off  his  bandage  and 
bathed  his  head  in  the  lotion  he  had  brought.  Before  a 
fresh  bandage  was  put  on,  he  looked  at  himself  for  a 
moment  in  the  mirror.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had 
seen  his  wound,  and  he  expected  to  find  himself  marked 
with  a  disfiguring  scar.  To  his  surprise  there  was  no 
sign  of  his  hurt  except  a  slightly  inflamed  spot  above 
his  temple.  He  stared  at  Nepapinas,  and  there  was 
no  need  of  the  question  that  was  in  his  mind. 

The  old  Indian  understood,  and  his  dried-up  face 
cracked  and  crinkled  in  a  grin.  "Bullet  hit  a  piece  of 
rock,  an'  rock,  not  bullet,  hit  um  head,"  he  explained. 
"Make  skull  almost  break — bend  um  in — but  Nepapinas 
straighten  again  with  fingers,  so-so."  He  shrugged 
his  thin  shoulders  with  a  cackling  laugh  of  pride  as  he 
worked  his  claw-like  fingers  to  show  how  the  opera 
tion  had  been  done. 

David  shook  hands  with  him  in  silence;  then  Nepa 
pinas  put  on  the  fresh  bandage,  and  after  that  went 
out,  chuckling  again  in  his  weird  way,  as  though  he 

125 


126  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

had  played  a  great  joke  on  the  white  man  whom  his 
wizardry  had  snatched  out  of  the  jaws  of  death. 

For  some  time  there  had  been  a  subdued  activity  out 
side.  The  singing  of  the  boatmen  had  ceased,  a  low 
voice  was  giving  commands,  and  looking  through  the 
window,  David  saw  that  the  bateau  was  slowly  swing 
ing  away  from  the  shore.  He  turned  from  the  win 
dow  to  the  table  and  lighted  the  cigar  St.  Pierre's  wife 
had  given  him. 

In  spite  of  the  mental  struggle  he  had  made  during 
the  presence  of  Nepapinas,  he  had  failed  to  get  a  grip 
on  himself.  For  a  time  he  had  ceased  to  be  David 
Carrigan,  the  man-hunter.  A  few  days  ago  his  blood 
had  run  to  that  almost  savage  thrill  of  the  great  game 
of  one  against  one,  the  game  in  which  Law  sat  on  one 
side  of  the  board  and  Lawlessness  on  the  other,  with 
the  cards  between.  It  was  the  great  gamble.  The  cards 
meant  life  or  death;  there  was  never  a  checkmate — 
one  or  the  other  had  to  lose.  Had  some  one  told  him 
then  that  soon  he  would  meet  the  broken  and  twisted 
hulk  of  a  man  who  had  known  Black  Roger  Audemard, 
every  nerve  in  him  would  have  thrilled  in  anticipation 
of  that  hour.  He  realized  this  as  he  paced  back  and 
forth  over  the  thick  rugs  of  the  bateau  floor.  And  he 
knew,  even  as  he  struggled  to  bring  them  back,  that 
the  old  thrill  and  the  old  desire  were  gone.  It  was 
impossible  to  lie  to  himself.  St.  Pierre,  in  this  moment, 
was  of  more  importance  to  him  than  Roger  Aude 
mard.  And  St.  Pierre's  wife,  Marie- Anne 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  127 

His  eyes  fell  on  the  crumpled  handkerchief  on  the 
piano  keys.  Again  he  was  crushing  it  in  the  palm  of 
his  hand,  and  again  the  flood  of  humiliation  and  shame 
swept  over  him.  He  dropped  the  handkerchief,  and 
the  great  law  of  his  own  life  seemed  to  rise  up  in  his 
face  and  taunt  him.  He  was  clean.  That  had  been 
his  greatest  pride.  He  hated  the  man  who  was  un 
clean.  It  was  his  instinct  to  kill  the  man  who  dese 
crated  another  man's  home.  And  here,  in  the  sacred- 
ness  of  St.  Pierre's  paradise,  he  found  himself  at  last 
face  to  face  with  that  greatest  fight  of  all  the  ages. 

He  faced  the  door.  He  threw  back  his  shoulders 
until  they  snapped,  and  he  laughed,  as  if  at  the  thing 
that  had  risen  up  to  point  its  finger  at  him.  After  all, 
it  did  not  hurt  a  man  to  go  through  a  bit  of  fire — if  he 
came  out  of  it  unburned.  And  deep  in  his  heart  he 
knew  it  \vas  not  a  sin  to  love,  even  as  he  loved,  if  he 
kept  that  love  to  himself.  What  he  had  done  when 
Marie-Anne  stood  at  the  window  he  could  not  undo. 
St.  Pierre  would  probably  have  killed  him  for  touch 
ing  her  hair  with  his  lips,  and  he  would  not  have  blamed 
St.  Pierre.  But  she  had  not  felt  that  stolen  caress. 
No  one  knew — but  himself.  And  he  was  happier  be 
cause  of  it.  It  was  a  sort  of  sacred  thing,  even  though 
it  brought  the  heat  of  shame  into  his  face. 

He  went  to  the  door,  opened  it,  and  stood  out  in 
the  sunshine.  It  was  good  to  feel  the  warmth  of  the 
sun  in  his  face  again  and  the  sweet  air  of  the  open  day 
in  his  lungs.  The  bateau  was  free  of  the  shore  and 


128  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

drifting  steadily  towards  midstream.  Bateese  was 
at  the  great  birchwood  rudder  sweep,  and  to  David's 
surprise  he  nodded  in  a  friendly  way,  and  his  wide 
mouth  broke  into  a  grin. 

"Ah,  it  is  coming  soon,  that  fight  of  ours,  little 
coq  de  bruyere!"  he  chuckled  gloatingly.  "An'  ze  fight 
will  be  jus'  lak  that,  m'sieu — you  ze  little  fool-hen's 
rooster,  ze  partridge,  an'  I,  Concombre  Bateese,  ze 
eagle!" 

The  anticipation  in  the  half-breed's  eyes  reflected 
itself  for  an  instant  in  David's.  He  turned  back  into 
the  cabin,  bent  over  his  pack,  and  found  among  his 
clothes  two  pairs  of  boxing  gloves.  He  fondled  them 
with  the  loving  touch  of  a  brother  and  comrade,  and 
their  velvety  smoothness  was  more  soothing  to  his 
nerves  than  the  cigar  he  was  smoking.  His  one  pas 
sion  above  all  others  was  boxing,  and  wherever  he 
went,  either  on  pleasure  or  adventure,  the  gloves  went 
with  him.  In  many  a  cabin  and  shack  of  the  far  hin 
terland  he  had  taught  white  men  and  Indians  how  to 
use  them,  so  that  he  might  have  the  pleasure  of  feel 
ing  the  thrill  of  them  on  his  hands.  And  now  here 
was  Concombre  Bateese  inviting  him  on,  waiting  for 
him  to  get  well ! 

He  went  out  and  dangled  the  clumsy-looking  mittens 
under  the  half-breed's  nose. 

Bateese  looked  at  them  curiously.  "Mitaines,"  he 
nodded.  "Does  ze  little  partridge  rooster  keep  his 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  129 

claws  warm  in  those  in  ze  winter?  They  are  clumsy, 
m'sieu.  I  can  make  a  better  mitten  of  caribou  skin." 

Putting  on  one  of  the  gloves,  David  doubled  up  his 
fist.  "Do  you  see  that,  Concombre  Bateese?"  he  asked. 
"Well,  I  will  tell  you  this,  that  they  are  not  mittens 
to  keep  your  hands  warm.  I  am  going  to  fight 
you  in  them  when  our  time  comes.  With  these  mittens 
I  will  fight  you  and  your  naked  fists.  Why  ?  Because  I 
do  not  want  to  hurt  you  too  badly,  friend  Bateese! 
I  do  not  want  to  break  your  face  all  to  pieces,  which 
I  would  surely  do  if  I  did  not  put  on  these  soft  mittens. 
Then,  when  you  have  really  learned  to  fight " 

The  bull  neck  of  Concombre  Bateese  looked  as  if  it 
were  about  to  burst.  His  eyes  seemed  ready  to  pop 
out  of  their  sockets,  and  suddenly  he  let  out  a  roar. 
"What! — You  dare  talk  lak  that  to  Concombre  Ba 
teese,  w'at  is  great'st  fightin'  man  on  all  T'ree  River? 
You  talk  lak  that  to  me,  Concombre  Bateese,  who  will 
kill  ze  bear  wit'  hees  han's,  who  pull  down  ze  tree, 
who — who ' ' 

The  word-flood  of  his  outraged  dignity  sprang  to 
his  lips;  emotion  choked  him,  and  then,  looking  sud 
denly  over  Carrigan's  shoulder — he  stopped.  Some 
thing  in  his  look  made  David  turn.  Three  paces  be 
hind  him  stood  Marie-Anne,  and  he  knew  that  from 
the  corner  of  the  cabin  she  had  heard  what  had  passed 
between  them.  She  was  biting  her  lips,  and  behind  the 
flash  of  her  eyes  he  saw  laughter. 


130  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

"You  must  not  quarrel,  children,"  she  said.  "Bateese, 
you  are  steering  badly." 

She  reached  out  her  hands,  and  without  a  word 
David  gave  her  the  gloves.  With  her  palm  and  fingers 
she  caressed  them  softly,  yet  David  saw  little  lines  of 
doubt  come  into  her  white  forehead. 

"They  are  pretty — and  soft,  M'sieu  David.  Surely 
they  can  not  hurt  much!  Some  day  when  St.  Pierre 
comes,  will  you  teach  me  how  to  use  them?" 

"Always  it  is  'When  St.  Pierre  comes/  "  he  replied. 
"Shall  we  be  waiting  long?" 

"Two  or  three  days,  perhaps  a  little  longer.  Are 
you  coming  with  me  to  the  proue,  m'sieu  ?" 

She  did  not  wait  for  his  answer,  but  went  ahead  of 
him,  dangling  the  two  pairs  of  gloves  at  her  side.  David 
caught  a  last  glimpse  of  the  half-breed's  face  as  he  fol 
lowed  Marie-Anne  around  the  end  of  the  cabin.  Bateese 
was  making  a  frightful  grimace  and  shaking  his  huge 
fist,  but  scarcely  wrere  they  out  of  sight  on  the  narrow 
footway  that  ran  between  the  cabin  and  the  outer  tim 
bers  of  the  scow  when  a  huge  roar  of  laughter  followed 
them.  Bateese  had  not  done  laughing  when  they 
reached  the  prone,  or  bow-nest,  a  deck  fully  ten  feet 
in  length  by  eight  in  width,  sheltered  above  by 
an  awning,  and  comfortably  arranged  with  chairs,  sev 
eral  rugs,  a  small  table,  and,  to  David's  amazement,  a 
hammock.  He  had  never  seen  anything  like  this  on  the 
Three  Rivers,  nor  had  he  ever  heard  of  a  scow  so  large 
or  so  luxuriously  appointed.  Over  his  head,  at  the 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  131 

tip  of  a  flagstaff  attached  to  the  forward  end  of  the 
cabin,  floated  the  black  and  white  pennant  of  St. 
Pierre  Boulain.  And  under  this  staff  was  a  screened 
door  which  undoubtedly  opened  into  the  kitchenette 
which  Marie-Anne  had  told  him  about.  He  made  no 
effort  to  hide  his  surprise.  But  St.  Pierre's  wife 
seemed  not  to  notice  it.  The  puckery  little  lines  were 
still  in  her  forehead,  and  the  laughter  had  faded  out 
of  her  eyes.  The  tiny  lines  deepened  as  there  came 
another  wild  roar  of  laughter  from  Bateese  in  the 
stern. 

"Is  it  true  that  you  have  given  your  word  to  fight 
Bateese?"  she  asked. 

"It  is  true,  Marie-Anne.  And  I  feel  that  Bateese 
is  looking  ahead  joyously  to  the  occasion." 

"He  is,"  she  affirmed.  "Last  night  he  spread  the 
news  among  all  my  people.  Those  who  left  to  join 
St.  Pierre  this  morning  have  taken  the  news  with  them, 
and  there  is  a  great  deal  of  excitement  and  much  bet 
ting.  I  am  afraid  you  have  made  a  bad  promise.  No 
man  has  offered  to  fight  Bateese  in  three  years — not 
even  my  great  St.  Pierre,  who  says  that  Concombre  is 
more  than  a  match  for  him." 

"And  yet  they  must  have  a  little  doubt,  as  there  is 
betting,  and  it  takes  two  to  make  a  bet,"  chuckled 
David. 

The  lines  went  out  of  Marie-Anne's  forehead,  and 
a  half-smile  trembled  on  her  red  lips.  "Yes,  there  is 
betting.  But  those  who  are  for  you  are  offering  next 


132  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

autumn's  muskrat  skins  and  frozen  fish  against  lynx 
and  fisher  and  marten.  The  odds  are  about  thirty  to 
one  against  you,  M'sieu  David!" 

The  look  of  pity  which  was  clearly  in  her  eyes 
brought  a  rush  of  blood  to  David's  face.  "If  only  I 
had  something  to  wager !"  he  groaned. 

"You  must  not  fight.    I  shall  forbid  it!" 

"Then  Bateese  and  I  will  steal  off  into  the  forest  and 
have  it  out  by  ourselves." 

"He  will  hurt  you  badly.  He  is  terrible,  like  a  great 
beast,  when  he  fights.  He  loves  to  fight  and  is  always 
asking  if  there  is  not  some  one  who  will  stand  up  to 
him.  I  think  he  would  desert  even  me  for  a  good  fight. 
But  you,  M'sieu  David " 

"I  also  love  a  fight,"  he  admitted,  unashamed. 

St.  Pierre's  wife  studied  him  thoughtfully  for  a 
moment.  "With  these?"  she  asked  then,  holding  up 
the  gloves. 

"Yes,  with  those.  Bateese  may  use  his  fists,  but  I 
shall  use  those,  so  that  I  shall  not  disfigure  him  perma 
nently.  His  face  is  none  too  handsome  as  it  is." 

For  another  flash  her  lips  trembled  on  the  edge  of 
a  smile.  Then  she  gave  him  the  gloves,  a  bit  troubled, 
and  nodded  to  a  chair  with  a  deep,  cushioned  seat  and 
wide  arms.  "Please  make  yourself  comfortable,  M'sieu 
David.  I  have  something  to  do  in  the  cabin  and  will 
return  in  a  little  while." 

He  wondered  if  she  had  gone  back  to  settle  the 
matter  with  Bateese  at  once,  for  it  was  clear  that  she 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  133 

did  not  regard  with  favor  the  promised  bout  between 
himself  and  the  half-breed.  It  was  on  the  spur  of  a 
careless  moment  that  he  had  promised  to  fight  Bateese, 
and  with  little  thought  that  it  was  likely  to  be  carried 
out  or  that  it  would  become  a  matter  of  importance 
with  all  of  St.  Pierre's  brigade.  He  was  evidently  in 
for  it,  he  told  himself,  and  as  a  fighting  man  it  looked 
as  though  Concombre  Bateese  was  at  least  the  equal  of 
his  braggadocio.  He  was  glad  of  that.  He  grinned 
as  he  watched  the  bending  backs  of  St.  Pierre's  men. 
So  they  were  betting  thirty  to  one  against  him !  Even 
St.  Pierre  might  be  induced  to  bet — with  him.  And  if 
he  did 

The  hot  blood  leaped  for  a  moment  in  Carrigan's 
veins.  The  thrill  went  to  the  tips  of  his  fingers.  He 
stared  out  over  the  river,  unseeing,  as  the  possibili 
ties  of  the  thing  that  had  come  into  his  mind  made  him 
for  a  moment  oblivious  of  the  world.  He  possessed 
one  thing  against  which  St.  Pierre  and  St.  Pierre's 
wrife  would  wager  a  half  of  all  they  owned  in  the  world ! 
And  if  he  should  gamble  that  one  thing,  which  had 
come  to  him  like  an  inspiration,  and  should  whip 
Bateese 

He  began  to  pace  back  and  forth  over  the  narrow 
deck,  no  longer  watching  the  rowers  or  the  shore. 
The  thought  grew,  and  his  mind  was  consumed  by  it. 
Thus  far,  from  the  moment  the  first  shot  was  fired  at 
him  from  the  ambush,  he  had  been  playing  with  ad 
venture  in  the  dark.  But  fate  had  at  last  dealt  him 


134  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

a  trump  card.  That  something  which  he  possessed 
was  more  precious  than  furs  or  gold  to  St.  Pierre,  and 
St.  Pierre  would  not  refuse  the  wager  when  it  was 
offered.  He  would  not  dare  refuse.  More  than  that, 
he  would  accept  eagerly,  strong  in  the  faith  that  Ba- 
teese  would  whip  him  as  he  had  whipped  all  other 
fighters  who  had  come  up  against  him  along  the 
Three  Rivers.  And  when  Marie-Anne  knew  what  that 
wager  was  to  be,  she,  too,  would  pray  for  the  gods  of 
chance  to  be  with  Concombre  Bateese ! 

He  did  not  hear  the  light  footsteps  behind  him,  and 
when  he  turned  suddenly  in  his  pacing,  he  found  him 
self  facing  Marie-Anne,  who  carried  in  her  hands  the 
little  basket  he  had  seen  on  the  cabin  table.  She  seated 
herself  in  the  hammock  and  took  from  the  basket  a 
bit  of  lace  work.  For  a  moment  he  watched  her  fingers 
flashing  in  and  out  with  the  needles. 

Perhaps  his  thought  went  to  her.  He  was  almost 
frightened  as  he  saw  her  cheeks  coloring  under  the 
long,  dark  lashes.  He  faced  the  rivermen  again,  and 
while  he  gripped  at  his  own  weakness,  he  tried  to  count 
the  flashings  of  their  oars.  And  behind  him,  the  beau 
tiful  eyes  of  St.  Pierre's  wife  were  looking  at  him 
with  a  strange  glow  in  their  depths. 

"Do  you  know,"  he  said,  speaking  slowly  and  still 
looking  toward  the  flashing  of  the  oars,  "something 
tells  me  that  unexpected  things  are  going  to  happen 
when  St.  Pierre  returns.  I  am  going  to  make  a  bet 
with  him  that  I  can  whip  Bateese.  He  will  not  refuse. 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  135 

He  will  accept.  And  St.  Pierre  will  lose,  because  I 
shall  whip  Bateese.  It  is  then  that  these  unexpected 
things  will  begin  to  happen.  And  I  am  wondering — 
after  they  do  happen — if  you  will  care  so  very  much?" 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence.  And  then,  "I  don't 
want  you  to  fight  Bateese,"  she  said. 

The  needles  were  working  swiftly  when  he  turned 
toward  her  again,  and  a  second  time  the  long  lashes 
shadowed  what  a  moment  before  he  might  have  seen 
in  her  eyes. 


XIII 

'  I  AHE  morning  passed  like  a  dream  to  Carrigan.  He 
•*•  permitted  himself  to  live  and  breathe  it  as  one 
who  finds  himself  for  a  space  in  the  heart  of  a  golden 
mirage.  He  was  sitting  so  near  Marie-Anne  that  now 
and  then  the  faint  perfume  of  her  came  to  him  like 
the  delicate  scent  of  a  flower.  It  was  a  breath  of 
crushed  violets,  sweet  as  the  air  he  was  breathing, 
violets  gathered  in  the  deep  cool  of  the  forest,  a  whis 
per  of  sweetness  about  her,  as  if  on  her  bosom  she 
wore  always  the  living  flowers.  He  fancied  her  gath 
ering  them  last  bloom-time,  a  year  ago,  alone,  her  feet 
seeking  out  th  e  damp  mosses,  her  little  fingers  plucking 
the  smiling  and  laughing  faces  of  the  violet  flowers 
to  be  treasured  away  in  fragrant  sachets,  as  gentle 
as  the  wood-thrush's  note,  compared  with  the  bottled 
aromas  fifteen  hundred  miles  south.  It  seemed  to  be 
a  physical  part  of  her,  a  thing  born  of  the  glow  in  her 
cheeks,  a  living  exhalation  of  her  soft  red  lips — and 
yet  only  when  he  was  near,  very  near,  did  the  life  of 
it  reach  him. 

She  did  not  know  he  was  thinking  these  things. 
There  was  nothing  in  his  voice,  he  thought,  to  betray 
him.  He  was  sure  she  was  unconscious  of  the  fight  he 

136 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  137 

was  making.  Her  eyes  smiled  and  laughed  with  him, 
she  counted  her  stitches,  her  fingers  worked,  and  she 
talked  to  him  as  she  might  have  talked  to  a  friend  of 
St.  Pierre's.  She  told  him  how  St.  Pierre  had  made 
the  barge,  the  largest  that  had  ever  been  on  the  river, 
and  that  he  had  built  it  entirely  of  dry  cedar,  so  that 
it  floated  like  a  feather  wherever  there  was  water 
enough  to  run  a  York  boat.  She  told  him  how  St. 
Pierre  had  brought  the  piano  down  from  Edmonton, 
and  how  he  had  saved  it  from  pitching  in  the  river  by 
carrying  the  full  weight  of  it  on  his  shoulders  when 
they  met  with  an  accident  in  running  through  a  danger 
ous  rapids  bringing  it  down.  St.  Pierre  was  a  very 
strong  man,  she  said,  a  note  of  pride  in  her  voice.  And 
then  she  added, 

"Sometimes,  when  he  picks  me  up  in  his  arms,  I 
feel  that  he  is  going  to  squeeze  the  life  out  of  me !" 

Her  words  were  like  a  sharp  thrust  into  his  heart 
For  an  instant  they  painted  a  vision  for  him,  a  pic 
ture  of  that  slim  and  adorable  creature  crushed  close 
in  the  great  arms  of  St.  Pierre,  so  close  that  she  could 
not  breathe.  In  that  mad  moment  of  his  hurt  it  was 
almost  a  living,  breathing  reality  for  him  there  on  the 
golden  fore-deck  of  the  scow.  He  turned  his  face  to 
ward  the  far  shore,  where  the  wilderness  seemed  to 
reach  off  into  eternity.  What  a  glory  it  was — the 
green  seas  of  spruce  and  cedar  and  balsam,  the  ridges 
of  poplar  and  birch  rising  like  silvery  spume  above 
the  darker  billows,  and  afar  off,  mellowed  in  the  sun- 


138  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

mists,  the  guardian  crests  of  Trout  Mountains  senti 
neling  the  country  beyond !  Into  that  mystery-land  on 
the  farther  side  of  the  Wabiskaw  waterways  Carrigan 
would  have  loved  to  set  his  foot  four  days  ago.  It 
was  that  mystery  of  the  unpeopled  places  that  he  most 
desired,  their  silence,  the  comradeship  of  spaces  un- 
trod  by  the  feet  of  man.  And  now,  what  a  fool  he 
was !  Through  vast  distances  the  forests  he  loved 
seemed  to  whisper  it  to  him,  and  ahead  of  him  the 
river  seemed  to  look  back,  nodding  over  its  shoulder, 
beckoning  to  him,  telling  him  the  word  of  the  forests 
was  true.  It  streamed  on  lazily,  half  a  mile  wide,  as 
if  resting  for  the  splashing  and  roaring  rush  it  would 
make  among  the  rocks  of  the  next  rapids,  and  in  its 
indolence  it  sang  the  low  and  everlasting  song  of  deep 
and  slowly  passing  water.  In  that  song  David  heard 
the  same  whisper,  that  he  was  a  fool !  And  the  lure 
of  the  wilderness  shores  crept  in  on  him  and  gripped 
him  as  of  old.  He  looked  at  the  rowers  in  the  two 
York  boats,  and  then  his  eyes  came  back  to  the  end 
of  the  barge  and  to  St.  Pierre's  wife. 

Her  little  toes  were  tapping  the  floor  of  the  deck. 
She,  too,  was  looking  out  over  the  wilderness.  And 
again  it  seemed  to  him  that  she  was  like  a  bird  that 
wanted  to  fly. 

"I  should  like  to  go  into  those  hills,"  she  said,  with 
out  looking  at  him.  "Away  off  yonder !" 

"And  I — I  should  like  to  go  with  you." 

"You  love  all  that,  m'sieu?"  she  asked. 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  139 

"Yes,  madame!" 

"Why  'madame,'  when  I  have  given  you  permission 
to  call  me  'Marie- Anne'  ?"  she  demanded. 

"Because  you  call  me  'm'sieu'." 

"But  you — you  have  not  given  me  permission " 

"Then  I  do  now,"  he  interrupted  quickly. 

"Merci!  I  have  wondered  why  you  did  not  return 
the  courtesy,"  she  laughed  softly.  "I  do  not  like  the 
m'sieu.  I  shall  call  you  'David' !" 

She  rose  out  of  the  hammock  suddenly  and  dropped 
her  needles  and  lace  work  into  the  little  basket.  "I  have 
forgotten  something.  It  is  for  you  to  eat  when  it  comes 
dinner-time,  m'sieu — I  mean  David.  Sc  I  must  turn 
file  de  cuisine  for  a  little  while.  That  is  what  St. 
Pierre  sometimes  calls  me,  because  I  love  to  play  at 
cooking.  I  am  going  to  bake  a  pie !" 

The  dark-screened  door  of  the  kitchenette  closed 
behind  her,  and  Carrigan  walked  out  from  under  the 
awning,  so  that  the  sun  beat  down  upon  him.  There 
was  no  longer  a  doubt  in  his  mind.  He  was  more  than 
fool.  He  envied  St.  Pierre,  and  he  coveted  that  which 
St.  Pierre  possessed.  And  yet,  before  he  would  take 
what  did  not  belong  to  him,  he  knew  he  would  put  a 
pistol  to  his  head  and  blow  his  life  out.  He  was  confi 
dent  of  himself  there.  Yet  he  had  fallen,  and  out  of 
the  mire  into  which  he  had  sunk  he  knew  also  that 
he  must  drag  himself,  and  quickly,  or  be  everlastingly 
lowered  in  his  own  esteem.  He  stripped  himself  naked 


140  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

and  did  not  lie  to  that  other  and  greater  thing  of  life 
that  was  in  him. 

He  was  not  only  a  fool,  but  a  coward.  Only  a  cow 
ard  would  have  touched  the  hair  of  St.  Pierre's  wife 
with  his  lips;  only  a  coward  would  have  let  live  the 
thoughts  that  burned  in  his  brain.  She  was  St.  Pierre's 
wife — and  he  was  anxious  now  for  the  quick  home 
coming  of  the  chief  of  the  Boulains.  After  that  every 
thing  would  happen  quickly.  He  thanked  God  that 
the  inspiration  of  the  wager  had  come  to  him.  After 
the  fight,  after  he  had  won,  then  once  more  would  he 
be  the  old  Dave  Carrigan,  holding  the  trump  hand 
in  a  thrilling  game. 

Loud  voices  from  the  York  boats  ahead  and  answer 
ing  cries  from  Bateese  in  the  stern  drew  him  to  the 
open  deck.  The  bateau  was  close  to  shore,  and  the 
half-breed  was  working  the  long  stern  sweep  as  if  the 
power  of  a  steam-engine  was  in  his  mighty  arms.  The 
York  boats  had  shortened  their  towline  and  were  pull 
ing  at  right  angles  within  a  few  yards  of  a  gravelly 
beach.  A  few  strokes  more,  and  men  who  were  bare 
to  the  knees  jumped  out  into  shallow  water  and  be 
gan  tugging  at  the  tow  rope  with  their  hands.  David 
looked  at  his  watch.  It  was  ten  o'clock.  Never  in 
his  life  had  time  passed  so  swiftly  as  that  morning 
on  the  forward  deck  of  the  barge.  And  now  they 
were  tying  up,  after  a  drop  of  six  or  eight  miles  down 
the  river,  and  he  wondered  how  swiftly  St.  Pierre 
was  overtaking  them  with  his  raft. 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  141 

He  was  filled  with  the  desire  to  feel  the  soft  crush 
of  the  earth  under  his  feet  again,  and  not  waiting 
for  the  long  plank  that  Bateese  was  already  swinging 
from  the  scow  to  the  shore,  he  made  a  leap  that  put 
him  on  the  sandy  beach.  St.  Pierre's  wife  had  given 
him  this  permission,  and  he  looked  to  see  what  effect 
his  act  had  on  the  half-breed.  The  face  of  Concombre 
Bateese  was  like  sullen  stone.  Not  a  sound  came  from 
his  thick  lips,  but  in  his  eyes  was  a  deep  and  danger 
ous  fire  as  he  looked  at  Carrigan.  There  was  no  need 
for  words.  In  them  were  suspicion,  warning,  the 
deadly  threat  of  what  would  happen  if  he  did  not  come 
back  when  it  was  time  to  return.  David  nodded.  He 
understood.  Even  though  St.  Pierre's  wife  had  faith 
in  him,  Bateese  had  not.  He  passed  between  the  men, 
and  to  a  man  their  faces  turned  on  him,  and  in  their 
quiet  and  watchful  eyes  he  saw  again  that  warning 
and  suspicion,  the  unspoken  threat  of  what  would 
happen  if  he  forgot  his  promise  to  Marie- Anne  Boulain. 
Never,  in  a  single  outfit,  had  he  seen  such  splendid 
men.  They  were  not  a  mongrel  assortment  of  the 
lower  country.  Slim,  tall,  clean-cut,  sinewy — they  were 
stock  of  the  old  voyageurs  of  a  hundred  years  ago,  and 
all  of  them  were  young.  The  older  men  had  gone  to 
St.  Pierre.  The  reason  for  this  dawned  upon  Carri 
gan.  Not  one  of  these  twelve  but  could  beat  him  in 
a  race  through  the  forest ;  not  one  that  could  not  outrun 
him  and  cut  him  off  though  he  had  hours  the  start ! 

Passing  beyond  them,  he  paused  and  looked  back  at 


142  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

the  bateau.  On  the  forward  deck  stood  Marie-Anne, 
and  she,  too,  was  looking  at  him  now.  Even  at  that 
distance  he  saw  that  her  face  was  quiet  and  troubled 
with  anxiety.  She  did  not  smile  when  he  lifted  his  hat 
to  her,  but  gave  only  a  little  nod.  Then  he  turned  and 
buried  himself  in  the  green  balsams  that  grew  within 
fifty  paces  of  the  river.  The  old  joy  of  life  leaped 
into  him  as  his  feet  crushed  in  the  soft  moss  of  the 
shaded  places  where  the  sun  did  not  break  through. 
He  went  on,  passing  through  a  vast  and  silent  cathedral 
of  spruce  and  cedar  so  dense  that  the  sky  was  hidden, 
and  came  then  to  higher  ground,  where  the  evergreen 
was  sprinkled  with  birch  and  poplar.  About  him  was 
an  invisible  choir  of  voices,  the  low  twittering  of  timid 
little  gray-backs,  the  song  of  hidden  warblers,  the  scold 
ing  of  distant  jays.  Big-eyed  moose-birds  stared  at 
him  as  he  passed,  fluttering  so  close  to  his  face  that  they 
almost  touched  his  shoulders  in  their  foolish  inquisitive- 
ness.  A  porcupine  crashed  within  a  dozen  feet  of  his 
trail.  And  then  he  came  to  a  beaten  path,  and  other 
paths  worn  deep  in  the  cool,  damp  earth  by  the  hoofs 
of  moose  and  caribou.  Half  a  mile  from  the  bateau 
he  sat  down  on  a  rotting  log  and  filled  his  pipe  with 
fresh  tobacco,  while  he  listened  to  catch  the  subdued 
voice  of  the  life  in  this  land  that  he  loved. 

It  was  then  that  the  curious  feeling  came  over  him 
that  he  was  not  alone,  that  other  eyes  than  those  of 
beast  and  bird  were  watching  him.  It  was  an  impres 
sion  that  grew  on  him.  He  seemed  to  feel  their  stare, 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  143 

seeking  him  out  from  the  darkest  coverts,  waiting  for 
him  to  shove  on,  dogging  him  like  a  ghost.  Within 
him  the  hound-like  instincts  of  the  man-hunter  rose 
swiftly  to  the  suspicion  of  invisible  presence. 

He  began  to  note  the  changes  in  the  cries  of  certain 
birds.  A  hundred  yards  on  his  right  a  jay,  most  talka 
tive  of  all  the  forest  things,  was  screeching  with  a  new 
note  in  its  voice.  On  the  other  side  of  him,  in  a  dense 
pocket  of  poplar  and  spruce,  a  warbler  suddenly  brought 
its  song  to  a  jerky  end.  He  heard  the  excited  Pe-wee — 
Pe-wee — Pe-wee  of  a  startled  little  gray-back  giving 
warning  of  an  unwelcome  intruder  near  its  nest.  And 
he  rose  to  his  feet,  laughing  softly  as  he  thumbed  down 
the  tobacco  in  his  pipe.  Jeanne  Marie-Anne  Boulain 
might  believe  in  him,  but  Bateese  and  her  wary  hench 
men  had  ways  of  their  own  of  strengthening  their  faith. 

It  was  close  to  noon  when  he  turned  back,  and  he 
did  not  return  by  the  moose  path.  Deliberately  he 
struck  out  a  hundred  yards  on  either  side  of  it,  traveling 
where  the  moss  grew  thick  and  the  earth  was  damp 
and  soft.  And  five  times  he  found  the  moccasin-prints 
of  men. 

Bateese,  with  his  sleeves  up,  was  scrubbing  the  deck 
of  the  bateau  when  David  came  over  the  plank. 

"There  are  moose  and  caribou  in  there,  but  I  fear 
I  disturbed  your  hunters,"  said  Carrigan,  grinning  at 
the  half-breed.  "They  are  too  clumsy  to  hunt  well, 
so  clumsy  that  even  the  birds  give  them  away.  I  am 
afraid  we  shall  go  without  fresh  meat  tomorrow !" 


144  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

Concombre  Bateese  stared  as  if  some  one  had 
stunned  him  with  a  blow,  and  he  spoke  no  word  as 
David  went  on  to  the  forward  deck.  Marie-Anne  had 
come  out  under  the  awning.  She  gave  a  little  cry  of 
relief  and  pleasure. 

"I  am  glad  you  have  come  back,  M'sieu  David !" 

"So  am  I,  madame,"  he  replied.  "I  think  the  woods 
are  unhealthful  to  travel  in !" 

Out  of  the  earth  he  felt  that  a  part  of  the  old  strength 
had  returned  to  him.  Alone  they  sat  at  dinner,  and 
Marie-Anne  waited  on  him  and  called  him  David  again 
— and  he  found  it  easier  now  to  call  her  Marie-Anne 
and  look  into  her  eyes  without  fear  that  he  was  betray 
ing  himself.  A  part  of  the  afternoon  he  spent  in  her 
company,  and  it  was  not  difficult  for  him  to  tell  her 
something  of  his  adventuring  in  the  north,  and  how, 
body  and  soul,  the  northland  had  claimed  him,  and  that 
he  hoped  to  die  in  it  when  his  time  came.  Her  eyes 
glowed  at  that.  She  told  him  of  two  years  she  had  spent 
in  Montreal  and  Quebec,  of  her  homesickness,  her  joy 
when  she  returned  to  her  forests.  It  seemed,  for  a 
time,  that  they  had  forgotten  St.  Pierre.  They  did 
not  speak  of  him.  Twice  they  saw  Andre,  the  Broken 
Man,  but  the  name  of  Roger  Audemard  was  not 
spoken.  And  a  little  at  a  time  she  told  him  of  the  hid 
den  paradise  of  the  Boulains  away  up  in  the  unmapped 
wildernesses  of  the  Yellowknife  beyond  the  Great  Bear, 
and  of  the  great  log  chateau  that  was  her  home. 

A  part  of  the  afternoon  he  spent  on  shore.    He  filled 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  145 

a  moosehide  bag  full  of  sand  and  suspended  it  from 
the  limb  of  a  tree,  and  for  three-quarters  of  an  hour 
pommeled  it  with  his  fists,  much  to  the  curiosity  and 
amusement  of  St.  Pierre's  men,  who  could  see  nothing 
of  man-fighting  in  these  antics.  But  the  exercise  as 
sured  David  that  he  had  lost  but  little  of  his  strength 
and  that  he  would  be  in  form  to  meet  Bateese  when 
the  time  came.  Toward  evening  Marie-Anne  joined 
him,  and  they  walked  for  half  an  hour  up  and  down 
the  beach.  It  was  Bateese  who  got  supper.  And 
after  that  Carrigan  sat  with  Marie-Anne  on  the  fore- 
deck  of  the  barge  and  smoked  another  of  St.  Pierre's 
cigars. 

The  camp  of  the  rivermen  was  two  hundred  yards 
below  the  bateau,  screened  between  by  a  finger  of  hard 
wood,  so  that  except  when  they  broke  into  a  chorus 
of  laughter  or  strengthened  their  throats  with  snatches 
of  song,  there  was  no  sound  of  their  voices.  But 
Bateese  was  in  the  stern,  and  Nepapinas  was  forever 
flitting  in  and  out  among  the  shadows  on  the  shore,  like 
a  shadow  himself,  and  Andre,  the  Broken  Man,  hov 
ered  near  as  night  came  on.  At  last  he  sat  down  in 
the  edge  of  the  white  sand  of  the  beach,  and  there  he 
remained,  a  silent  and  lonely  figure,  as  the  twilight 
deepened.  Over  the  world  hovered  a  sleepy  quiet.  Out 
of  the  forest  came  the  droning  of  the  wood-crickets, 
the  last  twitterings  of  the  day  birds,  and  the  beginning 
of  night  sounds.  A  great  shadow  floated  out  over  the 
river  close  to  the  bateau,  the  first  of  the  questing,  blood- 


146  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

seeking  owls  adventuring  out  like  pirates  from  their 
hiding-places  of  the  day.  One  after  another,  as  the 
darkness  thickened,  the  different  tribes  of  the  people 
of  the  night  answered  the  summons  of  the  first  stars. 
A  mile  down  the  river  a  loon  gave  its  harsh  love-cry; 
far  out  of  the  west  came  the  faint  trail-song  of  a  wolf; 
in  the  river  the  night- feeding  trout  splashed  like  the 
tails  of  beaver;  over  the  roof  of  the  wilderness  came 
the  coughing,  moaning  challenge  of  a  bull  moose  that 
yearned  for  battle.  And  over  these  same  forest  tops 
rose  the  moon,  the  stars  grew  thicker  and  brighter, 
and  through  the  finger  of  hardwood  glowed  the  fire  of 
St.  Pierre  Boulain's  men — while  close  beside  him,  silent 
in  these  hours  of  silence,  David  felt  growing  nearer 
and  still  nearer  to  him  the  presence  of  St.  Pierre's  wife. 

On  the  strip  of  sand  Andre,  the  Broken  Man,  rose 
and  stood  like  the  stub  of  a  misshapen  tree.  And  then 
slowly  he  moved  on  and  was  swallowed  up  in  the  mel 
low  glow  of  the  night. 

"It  is  at  night  that  he  seeks,"  said  St.  Pierre's  wife, 
for  it  was  as  if  David  had  spoken  the  thought  that  was 
in  his  mind. 

David,  for  a  moment,  was  silent.  And  then  he  said, 
"You  asked  me  to  tell  you  about  Black  Roger  Aude- 
mard.  I  will,  if  you  care  to  have  me.  Do  you?" 

He  saw  the  nodding  of  her  head,  though  the  moon 
and  star-mist  veiled  her  face. 

"Yes.  What  do  the  Police  say  about  Roger  Aude- 
mard?" 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  147 

He  told  her.  And  not  once  in  the  telling  of  the  story 
did  she  speak  or  move.  It  was  a  terrible  story  at  best, 
he  thought,  but  he  did  not  weaken  it  by  smoothing 
over  the  details.  This  was  his  opportunity.  He  wanted 
her  to  know  why  he  must  possess  the  body  of  Roger 
Audemard,  if  not  alive,  then  dead,  and  he  wanted  her 
to  understand  how  important  it  was  that  he  learn  more 
about  Andre,  the  Broken  Man. 

"He  was  a  fiend,  this  Roger  Audemard,"  he  began. 
"A  devil  in  man  shape,  afterward  called  'Black  Roger' 
because  of  the  color  of  his  soul." 

Then  he  went  on.  He  described  Hatchet  River  Post, 
where  the  tragedy  had  happened ;  then  told  of  the  fight 
that  came  about  one  day  between  Roger  Audemard 
and  the  factor  of  the  post  and  his  two  sons.  It  was 
an  unfair  fight;  he  conceded  that — three  to  one  was 
cowardly  in  a  fight.  But  it  could  not  excuse  what  hap 
pened  afterward.  Audemard  was  beaten.  He  crept 
off  into  the  forest,  almost  dead.  Then  he  came  back 
one  stormy  night  in  the  winter  with  three  strange 
friends.  Who  the  friends  were  the  Police  never 
learned.  There  was  a  fight,  but  all  through  the  fight 
Black  Roger  Audemard  cried  out  not  to  kill  the  factor 
and  his  sons.  In  spite  of  that  one  of  the  sons  was 
killed.  Then  the  terrible  thing  happened.  The  father 
and  his  remaining  son  were  bound  hand  and  foot  and 
fastened  in  the  ancient  dungeon  room  under  the  Post 
building.  Then  Black  Roger  set  the  building  on  fire, 
and  stood  outside  in  the  storm  and  laughed  like  a  mad- 


148  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

man  at  the  dying  shrieks  of  his  victims.  It  was  the 
season  when  the  trappers  were  on  their  lines,  and  there 
were  but  few  people  at  the  post.  The  company  clerk 
and  one  other  attempted  to  interfere,  and  Black  Roger 
killed  them  with  his  own  hands.  Five  deaths  that  night 
— two  of  them  horrible  beyond  description ! 

Resting  for  a  moment,  Carrigan  went  on  to  tell  of 
the  long  years  of  unavailing  search  made  by  the  Police 
after  that;  how  Black  Roger  was  caught  once  and 
killed  his  captor.  Then  came  the  rumor  that  he  was 
dead,  and  rumor  grew  into  official  belief,  and  the  Police 
no  longer  hunted  for  his  trails.  Then,  not  long  ago, 
came  the  discovery  that  Black  Roger  was  still  living, 
and  he,  Dave  Carrigan,  was  after  him. 

For  a  time  there  was  silence  after  he  had  finished. 
Then  St.  Pierre's  wife  rose  to  her  feet.  "I  wonder," 
she  said  in  a  low  voice,  "what  Roger  Audemard's  own 
story  might  be  if  he  were  here  to  tell  it?" 

She  stepped  out  from  under  the  awning,  and  in  the 
full  radiance  of  the  moon  he  saw  the  pale  beauty  of 
her  face  and  the  crowning  luster  of  her  hair. 

"Good  night!"  she  whispered. 

"Good  night !"  said  David. 

He  listened  until  her  retreating  footsteps  died  away, 
and  for  hours  after  that  he  had  no  thought  of  sleep. 
He  had  insisted  that  she  take  possession  of  her  cabin 
again,  and  Bateese  had  brought  out  a  bundle  of 
blankets.  These  he  spread  under  the  awning,  and 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  149 

when  he  drowsed  off,  it  was  to  dream  of  the  lovely  face 
he  had  seen  last  in  the  glow  of  the  moon. 

It  was  in  the  afternoon  of  the  fourth  day  that  two 
things  happened— one  that  he  had  prepared  himself 
for,  and  another  so  unexpected  that  for  a  space  it  sent 
his  world  crashing  out  of  its  orbit.  With  St.  Pierre's 
wife  he  had  gone  again  to  the  ridge-line  for  flowers, 
half  a  mile  back  from  the  river.  Returning  a  new 
way,  they  came  to  a  shallow  stream,  and  Marie-Anne 
stood  at  the  edge  of  it,  and  there  was  laughter  in  her 
shining  eyes  as  she  looked  to  the  other  side  of  it.  She 
had  twined  flowers  into  her  hair.  Her  cheeks  were 
rich  with  color.  Her  slim  figure  was  exquisite  in  its 
wild  pulse  of  life. 

Suddenly  she  turned  on  him,  her  red  lips  smiling 
their  witchery  in  his  face.  "You  must  carry  me 
across,"  she  said. 

He  did  not  answer.  He  was  a-tremble  as  he  drew 
near  her.  She  raised  her  arms  a  little,  waiting.  And 
then  he  picked  her  up.  She  was  against  his  breast. 
Her  two  hands  went  to  his  shoulders  as  he  waded  into 
the  stream;  he  slipped,  and  they  clung  a  little  tighter. 
The  soft  note  of  laughter  was  in  her  throat  when  the 
current  came  to  his  knees  out  in  the  middle  of  the 
stream.  He  held  h'.r  tighter;  and  then  stupidly,  he 
slipped  again,  and  the  movement  brought  her  lower 
in  his  arms,  so  that  for  a  space  her  head  was  against 
his  breast  and  his  face  was  crushed  in  the  soft  masses 
of  her  hair.  He  came  with  her  that  way  to  the  op- 


150  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

posite  shore  and  stood  her  on  her  feet  again,  standing 
back  quickly  so  that  she  would  not  hear  the  pounding 
of  his  heart.  Her  face  was  radiantly  beautiful,  and 
she  did  not  look  at  David,  but  away  from  him. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said. 

And  then,  suddenly,  they  heard  running  feet  behind 
them,  and  in  another  moment  one  of  the  brigade  men 
came  dashing  through  the  stream.  At  the  same  time 
there  came  from  the  river  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away 
a  thunderous  burst  of  voice.  It  was  not  the  voice  of 
a  dozen  men,  but  of  half  a  hundred,  and  Marie-Anne 
grew  tense,  listening,  her  eyes  on  fire  even  before  the 
messenger  could  get  the  words  out  of  his  mouth. 

"It  is  St.  Pierre !"  he  cried  then.  "He  has  come  with 
the  great  raft,  and  you  must  hurry  if  you  would  reach 
the  bateau  before  he  lands!" 

In  that  moment  it  seemed  to  David  that  Marie-Anne 
forgot  he  was  alive.  A  little  cry  came  to  her  lips,  and 
then  she  left  him,  running  swiftly,  saying  no  word  to 
him,  flying  with  the  speed  of  a  fawn  to  St.  Pierre 
Boulain !  And  when  David  turned  to  the  man  who  had 
come  up  behind  them,  there  was  a  strange  smile  on 
the  lips  of  the  lithe-limbed  forest-runner  as  his  eyes 
followed  the  hurrying  figure  of  St.  Pierre's  wife. 

Until  she  was  out  of  sight  he  stood  in  silence  and 
then  he  said  : 

"Come,  m'sieu.    We,  also,  must  meet  St.  Pierre !" 


XIV 

TP\  AVID  moved  slowly  behind  the  brigade  man.  He 
"*^  had  no  desire  to  hurry.  He  did  not  wish  to  see 
what  happened  when  Marie-Anne  met  St.  Pierre  Bou- 
lain.  Only  a  moment  ago  she  had  been  in  his  arms; 
her  hair  had  smothered  his  face;  her  hands  had  clung 
to  his  shoulders;  her  flushed  cheeks  and  long  lashes 
had  for  an  instant  lain  close  against  his  breast.  And 
now,  swiftly,  without  a  word  of  apology,  she  was  run 
ning  away  from  him  to  meet  her  husband. 

He  almost  spoke  that  word  aloud  as  he  saw  the  last 
of  her  slim  figure  among  the  silver  birches.  She  was 
going  to  the  man  to  whom  she  belonged,  and  there  was 
no  hesitation  in  the  manner  of  her  going.  She  was 
glad.  And  she  was  entirely  forgetful  of  him,  Dave 
Carrigan,  in  that  gladness. 

He  quickened  his  steps,  narrowing  the  distance  be 
tween  him  and  the  hurrying  brigade  man.  Only  the 
diseased  thoughts  in  his  brain  had  made  the  happen 
ing  in  the  creek  anything  but  an  accident.  It  was  all 
an  accident,  he  told  himself.  Marie- Anne  had  asked 
him  to  carry  her  across  just  as  she  would  have  asked 
any  one  of  her  rivermen.  It  was  his  fault,  and  not 
hers,  that  he  had  slipped  in  mid-stream,  and  that  his 


152  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

arms  had  closed  tighter  about  her,  and  that  her  hair 
had  brushed  his  face.  He  remembered  she  had  laughed, 
when  it  seemed  for  a  moment  that  they  were  going  to 
fall  into  the  stream  together.  Probably  she  would 
tell  St.  Pierre  all  about  it.  Surely  she  would  never 
guess  it  had  been  nearer  tragedy  than  comedy  for 
him. 

Once  more  he  was  convinced  he  had  proved  him 
self  a  weakling  and  a  fool.  His  business  now  was  with 
St.  Pierre,  and  the  hour  was  at  hand  when  the  game 
had  ceased  to  be  a  woman's  game.  He  had  looked 
ahead  to  this  hour.  He  had  prepared  himself  for  it 
and  had  promised  himself  action  that  would  be  both 
quick  and  decisive.  And  yet,  as  he  went  on,  his  heart 
was  still  thumping  unsteadily,  and  in  his  arms  and 
against  his  face  remained  still  the  sweet,  warm  thrill 
of  his  contact  with  Marie-Anne.  He  could  not 
drive  that  from  him.  It  would  never  completely  go. 
As  long  as  he  lived,  what  had  happened  in  the  creek 
would  live  with  him.  He  did  not  deny  that  crying 
voice  inside  him.  It  was  easy  for  his  mouth  to  make 
words.  He  could  call  himself  a  fool  and  a  weakling, 
but  those  words  were  purely  mechanical,  hollow,  mean 
ingless.  The  truth  remained.  It  was  a  blazing  fire  in 
his  breast,  a  conflagration  that  might  easily  get  the  best 
of  him,  a  thing  which  he  must  fight  and  triumph  over 
for  his  own  salvation.  He  did  not  think  of  danger  for 
Marie-Anne,  for  such  a  thought  was  inconceivable. 
The  tragedy  was  one-sided.  It  was  his  own  folly,  his 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  153 

own  danger.  For  just  as  he  loved  Marie-Anne,  so 
did  she  love  her  husband,  St.  Pierre. 

He  came  to  the  low  ridge  close  to  the  river  and 
climbed  up  through  the  thick  birches  and  poplars.  At 
the  top  was  a  bald  knob  of  sandstone,  over  which  the 
riverman  had  already  passed.  David  paused  there  and 
looked  down  on  the  broad  sweep  of  the  Athabasca. 

What  he  saw  was  like  a  picture  spread  out  on  the 
great  breast  of  the  river  and  the  white  strip  of  shore 
line.  Still  a  quarter  of  a  mile  upstream,  floating  down 
slowly  with  the  current,  was  a  mighty  raft,  and  for  a 
space  his  eyes  took  in  nothing  else.  On  the  Mackenzie, 
the  Athabasca,  the  Saskatchewan,  and  the  Peace  he 
had  seen  many  rafts,  but  never  a  raft  like  this  of  St. 
Pierre  Boulain.  It  was  a  hundred  feet  in  width  and 
twice  and  a  half  times  as  long,  and  with  the  sun  blaz 
ing  down  upon  it  from  out  of  a  cloudless  sky  it  looked 
to  him  like  a  little  city  swept  up  from  out  of  some 
archaic  and  savage  desert  land  to  be  transplanted  to 
the  river.  It  was  dotted  with  tents  and  canvas  shelters. 
Some  of  these  were  gray,  and  some  were  white,  and 
two  or  three  were  striped  with  broad  bands  of  yellow 
and  red.  Behind  all  these  was  a  cabin,  and  over  this 
there  rose  a  slender  staff  from  which  floated  the  black 
and  white  pennant  of  St.  Pierre.  The  raft  was  alive. 
Men  wrere  running  between  the  tents.  The  long  rudder 
sweeps  were  flashing  in  the  sun.  Rowers  with  naked 
arms  and  shoulders  were  straining  their  muscles  in  four 
York  boats  that  were  pulling  like  ants  at  the  giant 


154  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

mass  of  timber.  And  to  David's  ears  came  a  deep 
monotone  of  human  voices,  the  chanting  of  the  men  as 
they  worked. 

Nearer  to  him  a  louder  response  suddenly  made  an 
swer  to  it.  A  dozen  steps  carried  him  round  a  project 
ing  thumb  of  brush,  and  he  could  see  the  open  shore 
where  the  bateau  was  tied.  Marie-Anne  had  crossed 
the  strip  of  sand,  and  Bateese  was  helping  her  into  a 
waiting  York  boat.  Then  Bateese  shoved  it  off,  and 
the  four  men  in  it  began  to  row.  Two  canoes  were 
already  half-way  to  the  raft,  and  David  recognized  the 
occupant  of  one  of  them  as  Andre,  the  Broken  Man. 
Then  he  saw  Marie-Anne  rise  in  the  York  boat  and 
wave  something  white  in  her  hand. 

He  looked  again  toward  the  raft.  The  current  and 
the  sweeps  and  the  tugging  boats  were  drawing  it 
steadily  nearer.  Standing  at  the  very  edge  of  it  he  saw 
now  a  solitary  figure,  and  in  the  clear  sunlight  the  man 
stood  out  clean-cut  as  a  carven  statue.  He  was  a  giant 
in  size.  His  head  and  arms  were  bare,  and  he  was 
looking  steadily  toward  the  bateau  and  the  approach 
ing  York  boat.  He  raised  an  arm,  and  a  moment 
later  the  movement  was  followed  by  a  voice  that  rose 
above  all  other  voices.  It  boomed  over  the  river  like 
the  rumble  of  a  gun.  In  response  to  it  Marie-Anne 
waved  the  white  thing  in  her  hand,  and  David  thought 
he  heard  her  voice  in  an  answering  cry.  He  stared 
again  at  the  solitary  figure  of  the  man,  seeing  nothing 
else,  hearing  no  other  sound  but  the  booming  of  the 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  155 

deep  cry  that  came  again  over  the  river.  His  heart 
was  thumping.  In  his  eyes  was  a  gathering  fire.  His 
body  grew  tense.  For  he  knew  that  at  last  he  was 
looking  at  St.  Pierre,  chief  of  the  Boulains,  and  hus 
band  of  the  woman  he  loved. 

As  the  significance  of  the  situation  grew  upon  him,  a 
flash  of  his  old  humor  returned.  It  was  the  same  grim 
humor  that  had  possessed  him  behind  the  rock,  when 
he  had  thought  he  was  going  to  die.  Fate  had  played 
him  a  dishonest  turn  then,  and  it  was  doing  the  same 
thing  by  him  now.  Unless  he  deliberately  turned  his 
face  away,  he  was  going  to  see  the  reunion  of  Marie- 
Anne  and  St.  Pierre. 

Yesterday  he  had  strapped  his  binoculars  to  his  belt. 
Today  Marie-Anne  had  looked  through  them  a  dozen 
times.  They  had  been  a  source  of  pleasure  and  thrill 
to  her.  Now,  David  thought,  they  would  be  good 
medicine  for  him.  He  would  see  the  whole  thing 
through,  and  at  close  range.  He  would  leave  himself 
no  room  for  doubt.  He  had  laughed  behind  the  rock, 
when  bullets  were  zipping  close  to  his  head,  and  the 
same  grim  smile  came  to  his  lips  now  as  he  focused 
his  glasses  on  the  solitary  figure  at  the  head  of  the 
raft. 

The  smile  died  away  when  he  saw  St.  Pierre.  It 
was  as  if  he  could  reach  out  and  touch  him  with  his 
hand.  And  never,  he  thought,  had  he  seen  such  a  man. 
A  moment  before,  a  flashing  vision  had  come  to  him 
from  out  of  an  Arabian  desert;  the  multitude  of 


156  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

colored  tents,  the  half-naked  men,  the  great  raft  float 
ing  almost  without  perceptible  motion  on  the  placid 
breast  of  the  river  had  stirred  his  imagination  until 
he  saw  a  strange  picture.  But  there  was  nothing 
Arabic,  nothing  desert-like,  in  this  man  his  binoculars 
brought  within  a  few  feet  of  his  eyes.  He  was  more 
like  a  viking  pirate  who  had  roved  the  sea  a  few  cen 
turies  ago.  One  great,  bare  arm  was  raised  as  David 
looked,  and  his  booming  voice  was  rolling  over  the 
river  again.  His  hair  was  shaggy,  and  untrimmed, 
and  red;  he  wore  a  short  beard  that  glistened  in  the 
sun — he  was  laughing  as  he  waved  and  shouted  to 
Marie-Anne — a  joyous,  splendid  giant  of  a  man  who 
seemed  almost  on  the  point  of  leaping  into  the  water 
in  his  eagerness  to  clasp  in  his  naked  arms  the  woman 
who  was  coming  to  him. 

David  drew  a  deep  breath,  and  there  came  an  un 
conscious  tightening  at  his  heart  as  he  turned  his 
glasses  upon  Marie-Anne.  She  was  still  standing  in 
the  bow  of  the  York  boat,  and  her  back  was  toward 
him.  He  could  see  the  glisten  of  the  sun  in  her  hair. 
She  was  waving  her  handkerchief,  and  the  poise  of  her 
slim  body  told  him  that  in  her  eagerness  she  would 
have  darted  from  the  bow  of  the  boat  had  she  possessed 
wings. 

Again  he  looked  at  St.  Pierre.  And  this  was  the 
man  who  was  no  match  for  Concombre  Bateese !  It  was 
inconceivable.  Yet  he  heard  Marie-Anne's  voice  re 
peating  those  very  words  in  his  ear.  But  she  had  surely 
been  joking  with  him.  She  had  been  storing  up  this 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  157 

little  surprise  for  him.  She  had  wanted  him  to  discover 
with  his  own  eyes  what  a  splendid  man  was  this  chief 
of  the  Boulains.  And  yet,  as  David  stared,  there  came 
to  him  an  unpleasant  thought  of  the  incongruity  of 
this  thing  he  was  looking  upon.  It  struck  upon  him 
like  a  clashing  discord,  the  fact  of  matehood  between 
these  two — a  condition  inconsistent  and  out  of  tune 
with  the  beautiful  things  he  had  built  up  in  his  mind 
about  the  woman.  In  his  soul  he  had  enshrined  her 
as  a  lovely  wildflower,  easily  crushed,  easily  destroyed, 
a  sweet  treasure  to  be  guarded  from  all  that  was  rough 
and  savage,  a  little  violet-goddess  as  fragile  as  she  was 
brave  and  loyal.  And  St.  Pierre,  standing  there  at  the 
edge  of  his  raft,  looked  as  if  he  had  come  up  out  of 
the  caves  of  a  million  years  ago!  There  was  some 
thing  barbaric  about  him.  He  needed  only  a  club  and 
a  shield  and  the  skin  of  a  beast  about  his  loins  to  trans 
form  him  into  prehistoric  man.  At  least  these  were 
his  first  impressions — impressions  roused  by  thought 
of  Marie-Anne's  slim,  beautiful  body  crushed  close  in 
the  embrace  of  that  laughing,  powerful-lunged  giant. 
Then  the  reaction  swept  over  him.  St.  Pierre  was 
not  a  monster,  even  though  his  disturbed  mind  uncon 
sciously  made  an  effort  to  conceive  him  as  such.  There 
were  gladness  and  laughter  in  his  face.  There  was  the 
contagion  of  joy  and  good  cheer  in  the  voice  that 
boomed  over  the  water.  Laughter  and  shouts  an 
swered  it  from  the  shore.  The  rowers  in  Marie-Anne's 
York  boat  burst  into  a  wild  and  exultant  snatch  of 
song  and  made  their  oars  fairly  crack.  There  came 


158  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

a  solitary  yell  from  Andre,  the  Broken  Man,  who  was 
close  to  the  head  of  the  raft  now.  And  from  the  raft 
itself  came  a  slowly  swelling  volume  of  sound,  the  urge 
and  voice  and  exultation  of  red-blooded  men  a-thrill 
with  the  glory  of  this  day  and  the  wild  freedom  of 
their  world.  The  truth  came  to  David.  St.  Pierre 
Boulain  was  the  beloved  Big  Brother  of  his  people. 

He  waited,  his  muscles  tense,  his  jaws  set  tight. 
Good  medicine,  he  called  it  again,  a  righteous  sort  of 
punishment  set  upon  him  for  the  moral  cowardice  he 
had  betrayed  in  falling  down  in  worship  at  the  feet 
of  another  man's  wife.  The  York  boat  was  very  close 
to  the  head  of  the  raft  now.  He  saw  Marie-Anne  her 
self  fling  a  rope  to  St.  Pierre.  Then  the  boat  swung 
alongside.  In  another  moment  St.  Pierre  had  leaned 
over,  and  Marie-Anne  was  with  him  on  the  raft.  For 
a  space  everything  else  (in  the  world  was  obliterated 
for  David.  He  saw  St.  Pierre's  arms  gather  the  slim 
form  into  their  embrace.  He  saw  Marie-Anne's  hands 
go  up  fondly  to  the  bearded  face.  And  then 

Carrigan  cut  the  picture  there.  He  turned  his 
shoulder  to  the  raft  and  snapped  the  binoculars  in  the 
case  at  his  belt.  Some  one  was  coming  in  his  direction 
from  the  bateau.  It  was  the  riverman  who  had  brought 
to  Marie- Anne  the  news  of  St.  Pierre's  arrival.  David 
went  down  to  meet  him.  From  the  foot  of  the  ridge 
he  again  turned  his  eyes  in  the  direction  of  the  raft. 
St.  Pierre  and  Marie-Anne  were  just  about  to  enter 
the  little  cabin  built  in  the  center  of  the  drifting  mass 
ol  timber. 


TT  was  easy  for  Carrigan  to  guess  why  the  river- 
•*•  man  had  turned  back  for  him.  Men  were  busy  about 
the  bateau,  and  Concombre  Bateese  stood  in  the  stern,  a 
long  pole  in  his  hands,  giving  commands  to  the  others. 
The  bateau  was  beginning  to  swing  out  into  the  stream 
when  he  leaped  aboard.  A  wide  grin  spread  over  the 
half-breed's  face.  He  eyed  David  keenly  and  laughed 
in  his  deep  chest,  an  unmistakable  suggestiveness  in 
the  note  of  it. 

"You  look  seek,  m'sieu,"  he  said  in  an  undertone, 
for  David's  ears  alone.  "You  look  ver'  unhappy,  an* 
pale  lak  leetle  boy !  Wat  happen  w'en  you  look  Trough 
ze  glass  up  there,  eh  ?  Or  ees  it  zat  you  grow  frighten 
because  ver'  soon  you  stan'  up  an'  fight  Concombre 
Bateese?  Eh,  coq  de  bruyeref  Ees  it  zat?" 

A  quick  thought  came  to  David.  "Is  it  true  that 
St.  Pierre  can  not  whip  you,  Bateese  ?" 

Bateese  threw  out  his  chest  with  a  mighty  intake 
of  breath.  Then  he  exploded :  "No  man  on  all  T'ree 
River  can  w'ip  Concombre  Bateese." 

"And  St.  Pierre  is  a  powerful  man,"  mused  David, 
letting  his  eyes  travel  slowly  from  the  half-breed's 
moccasined  feet  to  the  top  of  his  head.  "I  measured 

159 


160  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

him  well  through  the  glasses,  Bateese.  It  will  be  a 
great  fight.  But  I  shall  whip  you !" 

He  did  not  wait  for  the  half-breed  to  reply,  but  went 
into  the  cabin  and  closed  the  door  behind  him.  He 
did  not  like  the  taunting  note  of  suggestiveness  in  the 
other's  words.  Was  it  possible  that  Bateese  suspected 
the  true  state  of  his  mind,  that  he  was  in  love  with 
the  wife  of  St.  Pierre,  and  that  his  heart  was  sick  be 
cause  of  what  he  had  seen  aboard  the  raft?  He  flushed 
hotly.  It  made  him  uncomfortable  to  feel  that  even  the 
half-breed  might  have  guessed  his  humiliation. 

David  looked  through  the  window  toward  the  raft. 
The  bateau  was  drifting  downstream,  possibly  a  hun 
dred  feet  from  the  shore,  but  it  was  quite  evident  that 
Concombre  Bateese  was  making  no  effort  to  bring  it 
close  to  the  floating  mass  of  timber,  which  had  made 
no  change  in  its  course  down  the  river.  David's  mind 
painted  swiftly  what  was  happening  in  the  cabin  into 
which  Marie-Anne  and  St.  Pierre  had  disappeared. 
At  this  moment  Marie-Anne  was  telling  of  him,  of  the 
adventure  in  the  hot  patch  of  sand.  He  fancied  the 
suppressed  excitement  in  her  voice  as  she  unburdened 
herself.  He  saw  St.  Pierre's  face  darken,  his  muscles 
tighten — and  crouching  in  silence,  he  seemed  to  see  the 
misshapen  hulk  of  Andre,  the  Broken  Man,  listening 
to  what  was  passing  between  the  other  two.  And  he 
heard  again  the  mad  monotone  of  Andre's  voice,  cry 
ing  plaintively,  "Has  any  one  seen  Black  Roger  Aude- 
mard?" 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  161 

His  blood  ran  a  little  faster,  and  his  old  craft  was 
a  dominantly  living  thing  within  him  once  more.  Love 
had  dulled  both  his  ingenuity  and  his  desire.  For  a 
space  a  thing  had  risen  before  him  that  was  mightier 
than  the  majesty  of  the  Law,  and  he  had  tried  to  miss 
the  bull's-eye — because  of  his  love  for  the  wife  of  St. 
Pierre  Boulain.  Now  he  shot  squarely  for  it,  and  the 
bell  rang  in  his  brain.  Two  times  two  again  made  four. 
Facts  assembled  themselves  like  arguments  in  flesh  and 
blood.  Those  facts  would  have  convinced  Superin 
tendent  McVane,  and  they  now  convinced  David.  He 
had  set  out  to  get  Black  Roger  Audemard,  alive  or  dead. 
And  Black  Roger,  wholesale  murderer,  a  monster  who 
had  painted  the  blackest  page  of  crime  known  in  the 
history  of  Canadian  law,  was  closely  and  vitally  associ 
ated  with  Marie-Anne  and  St.  Pierre  Boulain ! 

The  thing  was  a  shock,  but  Carrigan  no  longer  tried 
to  evade  the  point.  His  business  was  no  longer  with  a 
man  supposed  to  be  a  thousand  or  5  f teen  hundred  miles 
farther  north.  It  was  with  Marie-Anne,  St.  Pierre, 
and  Andre,  the  Broken  Man.  And  also  with  Con- 
combre  Bateese. 

He  smiled  a  little  grimly  as  he  thought  of  his  ap 
proaching  battle  with  the  half-breed.  St.  Pierre  would 
be  astounded  at  the  proposition  he  had  in  store  for 
him.  But  he  was  sure  that  St.  Pierre  would  accept. 
And  then,  if  he  won  the  fight  with  Bateese 

The  smile  faded  from  his  lips.  His  face  grew  older 
as  he  looked  slowly  about  the  bateau  cabin,  with  its 


162  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

sweet  and  lingering  whispers  of  a  woman's  presence. 
It  was  a  part  of  her.  It  breathed  of  her  fragrance  and 
her  beauty;  it  seemed  to  be  waiting  for  her,  crying 
softly  for  her  return.  Yet  once  had  there  been  another 
woman  even  lovelier  than  the  wife  of  St.  Pierre.  He 
had  not  hesitated  then.  Without  great  effort  he  had 
triumphed  over  the  loveliness  of  Carmin  Fanchet  and 
had  sent  her  brother  to  the  hangman.  And  now,  as 
he  recalled  those  days,  the  truth  came  to  him  that  even 
in  the  darkest  hour  Carmin  Fanchet  had  made  not  the 
slightest  effort  to  buy  him  off  with  her  beauty.  She 
had  not  tried  to  lure  him.  She  had  fought  proudly 
and  defiantly.  And  had  Marie-Anne  done  that?  His 
fingers  clenched  slowly,  and  a  thickening  came  in  his 
throat.  Would  she  tell  St.  Pierre  of  the  many  hours 
they  had  spent  together?  Would  she  confess  to  him 
the  secret  of  that  precious  moment  when  she  had  lain 
close  against  his  breast,  her  arms  about  him,  her  face 
pressed  to  his?  Would  she  speak  to  him  of  secret 
hours,  of  warm  flushes  that  had  come  to  her  face,  of 
glowing  fires  that  at  times  had  burned  in  her  eyes  when 
he  had  been  very  near  to  her  ?  Would  she  reveal  every 
thing  to  St.  Pierre — her  husband?  He  was  powerless 
to  combat  the  voice  that  told  him  no.  Carmin  Fanchet 
had  fought  him  openly  as  an  enemy  and  had  not  em 
ployed  her  beauty  as  a  weapon.  Marie-Anne  had  put 
in  his  way  a  great  temptation.  What  he  was  think 
ing  seemed  to  him  like  a  sacrilege,  yet  he  knew  there 
could  be  no  discriminating  distinctions  between 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  163 

weapons,  now  that  he  was  determined  to  play  the  game 
to  the  end,  for  the  Law. 

When  Carrigan  went  out  on  deck,  the  half-breed 
was  sweating  from  his  exertion  at  the  stern  sweep.  He 
looked  at  the  agent  de  police  who  was  going  to  fight 
him,  perhaps  tomorrow  or  the  next  day.  There  was 
a  change  in  Carrigan.  He  was  not  the  same  man  who 
had  gone  into  the  cabin  an  hour  before,  and  the  fact 
impressed  itself  upon  Bateese.  There  was  something 
in  his  appearance  that  held  back  the  loose  talk  at  the 
end  of  Concombre's  tongue.  And  so  it  was  Carrigan 
himself  who  spoke  first. 

"When  will  this  man  St.  Pierre  come  to  see  me?" 
he  demanded.  "If  he  doesn't  come  soon,  I  shall  go  to 
him." 

For  an  instant  Concombre's  face  darkened.  Then, 
as  he  bent  over  the  sweep  with  his  great  back  to  David, 
he  chuckled  audibly,  and  said : 

"Would  you  go,  m'sieu?  Ah — it  is  le  malade 
d'amour  over  there  in  the  cabin.  Surely  you  would 
not  break  in  upon  their  love-making?" 

Bateese  did  not  look  over  his  shoulder,  and  so  he 
did  not  see  the  hot  flush  that  gathered  in  David's  face. 
But  David  was  sure  he  knew  it  was  there  and  that  Con- 
combre  had  guessed  the  truth  of  matters.  There  was 
a  sly  note  in  his  voice,  as  if  he  could  not  quite  keep  to 
himself  his  exultation  that  beauty  and  bright  eyes  had 
played  a  clever  trick  on  this  man  who,  if  his  own  judg 
ment  had  been  followed,  would  now  be  resting  peace- 


164  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

fully  at  the  bottom  of  the  river.  It  was  the  final  stab 
to  Carrigan.  His  muscles  tensed.  For  the  first  time 
he  felt  the  desire  to  shoot  a  naked  fist  into  the  grinning 
mouth  of  Concombre  Bateese.  He  laid  a  hand  on  the 
half-breed's  shoulder,  and  Bateese  turned  about  slowly. 
He  saw  what  was  in  the  other's  eyes. 

"Until  this  moment  I  have  not  known  what  a  great 
pleasure  it  will  be  to  fight  you,  Bateese,"  said  David 
quietly.  "Make  it  tomorrow — in  the  morning,  if  you 
wish.  Take  word  to  St.  Pierre  that  I  will  make  him  a 
great  wager  that  I  win,  a  gamble  so  large  that  I  think 
he  will  be  afraid  to  cover  it.  For  I  don't  think  much 
of  this  St.  Pierre  of  yours,  Bateese.  I  believe  him  to 
be  a  big-winded  bluff,  like  yourself.  And  also  a  coward. 
Mark  my  word,  he  will  be  so  much  afraid  that  he  will 
not  accept  my  wager!'' 

Bateese  did  not  answer.  He  was  looking  over 
David's  shoulder.  He  seemed  not  to  have  heard  what 
the  other  had  said,  yet  there  had  come  a  sudden  gleam 
of  exultation  in  his  eyes,  and  he  replied,  still  gazing 
toward  the  raft, 

"Diantre,  tn'sieu  coq  de  bruyere  may  keep  ze  beeg 
word  in  hees  mout' !  See ! — St.  Pierre,  he  ees  comin'- 
to  answer  for  himself.  Mon  Dieu,  I  hope  he  does  not 
wring  ze  leetle  rooster's  neck,  for  zat  would  spoil  wan 
great,  gran'  fight  tomorrow !" 

David  turned  toward  the  big  raft.  At  the  distance 
which  separated  them  he  could  make  out  the  giant 
figure  of  St.  Pierre  Boulain  getting  into  a  canoe.  The 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  165 

humped-up  form  already  in  that  canoe  he  knew  was 
the  Broken  Man.  He  could  not  see  Marie-Anne. 

Very  lightly  Bateese  touched  his  arm.  "M'sieu  will 
go  into  ze  cabin,"  he  suggested  softly.  "If  somet'ing 
happens,  it  ees  bes'  too  many  eyes  do  not  see  it.  You 
imderstan',  m'sieu  agent  de  police?" 

Carrigan  nodded.     "I  understand,"  he  said.. 


XVI 

TN  the  cabin  David  waited.  He  did  not  look  through 
the  window  to  watch  St.  Pierre's  approach,  lie 
sat  down  and  picked  tip  a  magazine  from  the  table  upon 
which  Marie-Anne's  work-basket  lay.  He  was  cool 
as  ice  now.  His  blood  flowed  evenly  and  his  pulse  beat 
unhurriedly.  Never  had  he  felt  himself  more  his  own 
master,  more  like  grappling  with  a  situation.  St. 
Pierre  was  coming  to  fight.  He  had  no  doubt  of  that. 
Perhaps  not  physically,  at  first.  But,  one  way  or  an 
other,  something  dynamic  was  bound  to  happen  in  the 
bateau  cabin  within  the  next  half -hour.  Now  that  the 
impending  drama  was  close  at  hand,  Carrigan's  scheme 
of  luring  St.  Pierre  into  the  making  of  a  stupendous 
wager  seemed  to  him  rather  ridiculous.  With  calculat 
ing  coldness  he  was  forced  to  concede  that  St.  Pierre 
would  be  somewhat  of  a  fool  to  accept  the  wager  he 
had  in  mind,  when  he  wras  so  completely  in  St.  Pierre's 
power.  For  Marie- Anne  and  the  chief  of  the  Boulains, 
the  bottom  of  the  river  would  undoubtedly  be  the  best 
and  easiest  solution,  and  the  half-breed's  suggestion 
might  be  acted  upon  after  all. 

As  his  mind  charged    itself    for    the    approaching 
struggle,  David  found  himself  staring  at  a  double  page 

166 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  167 

in  the  magazine,  given  up  entirely  to  impossibly  slim 
young  creatures  exhibiting  certain  bits  of  illusive  and 
mysterious  feminine  apparel.  Marie- Anne  had  ex 
pressed  her  approbation  in  the  form  of  pencil  notes 
under  several  of  them.  Under  a  cobwebby  affair  that 
wreathed  one  of  the  slim  figures  he  read,  "St.  Pierre 
will  love  this!"  There  were  two  exclamation  points 
after  that  particular  notation! 

David  replaced  the  magazine  on  the  table  and  looked 
toward  the  door.  No,  St.  Pierre  would  not  hesitate 
to  put  him  at  the  bottom  of  the  river,  for  her.  Not  if 
he,  Dave  Carrigan,  made  the  solution  of  the  matter  a 
necessity.  There  were  times,  he  told  himself,  when  it 
was  confoundedly  embarrassing  to  force  the  letter  of 
the  law.  And  this  was  one  of  them.  He  was  not  afraid 
of  the  river  bottom.  He  was  thinking  again  of  Marie- 
Anne. 

The  scraping  of  a  canoe  against  the  side  of  the  bateau 
recalled  him  suddenly  to  the  moment  at  hand.  He 
heard  low  voices,  and  one  of  them,  he  knew,  was  St. 
Pierre's.  For  an  interval  the  voices  continued,  fre 
quently  so  low  that  he  could  not  distinguish  them  at 
all.  For  ten  minutes  he  waited  impatiently.  Then  the 
door  swung  open,  and  St.  Pierre  came  in. 

Slowly  and  coolly  David  rose  to  meet  him,  and  at 
the  same  moment  the  chief  of  the  Boulains  closed  the 
door  behind  him.  There  was  no  greeting  in  Carrigan's 
manner.  He  was  the  Law,  waiting,  unexcited,  sure  of 
himself,  impassive  as  a  thing  of  steel.  He  was  ready 


i68  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

to  fight.  He  expected  to  fight.  It  only  remained  for 
St.  Pierre  to  show  what  sort  of  fight  it  was  to  be.  And 
he  was  amazed  at  St.  Pierre,  without  betraying  that 
amazement.  In  the  vivid  light  that  shot  through  the 
western  windows  the  chief  of  the  Boulains  stood  look 
ing  at  David.  He  wore  a  gray  flannel  shirt  open  at  the 
throat,  and  it  was  a  splendid  throat  David  saw,  and  a 
splendid  head  above  it,  with  its  reddish  beard  and  hair. 
But  what  he  saw  chiefly  were  St.  Pierre's  eyes.  They 
were  the  sort  of  eyes  he  disliked  to  find  in  an  enemy — 
a  grayish,  steely  blue  that  reflected  sunlight  like  pol 
ished  flint.  But  there  was  no  flash  of  battle-glow  in 
them  now.  St.  Pierre  was  neither  excited  nor  in  a  bad 
humor.  Nor  did  Carrigan's  attitude  appear  to  disturb 
him  in  the  least.  He  was  smiling;  his  eyes  glowed 
with  almost  boyish  curiosity  as  he  stared  appraisingly 
at  David — and  then,  slowly,  a  low  chuckle  of  laughter 
rose  in  his  deep  chest,  and  he  advanced  with  an  out 
stretched  hand. 

"I  am  St.  Pierre  Boulain,"  he  said.  "I  have  heard 
a  great  deal  about  you,  Sergeant  Carrigan.  You  have 
had  an  unfortunate  time !" 

Had  the  man  advanced  menacingly,  David  would 
have  felt  more  comfortable.  It  was  disturbing  to  have 
this  giant  come  to  him  with  an  extended  hand  of  appar 
ent  friendship  when  he  had  anticipated  an  entirely  dif 
ferent  sort  of  meeting.  And  St.  Pierre  was  laughing 
at  him !  There  was  no  doubt  of  that.  And  he  had  the 
colossal  nerve  to  tell  him  that  he  had  been  unfortunate, 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  169 

as  though  being  shot  up  by  somebody's  wife  was  a 
fairly  decent  joke ! 

Carrigan's  attitude  did  not  change.  He  did  not  reach 
out  a  hand  to  meet  the  other.  There  was  no  responsive 
glimmer  of  humor  in  his  eyes  or  on  his  lips.  And  see 
ing  these  things,  St.  Pierre  turned  his  extended  hand  to 
the  open  box  of  cigars,  so  that  he  stood  for  a  moment 
with  his  back  toward  him. 

"It's  funny,"  he  said,  as  if  speaking  to  himself,  and 
with  only  a  drawling  note  of  the  French  patois  in  his 
voice.  "I  come  home,  find  my  Jeanne  in  a  terrible  mix- 
up,  a  stranger  in  her  room — and  the  stranger  refuses 
to  let  me  laugh  or  shake  hands  with  him.  Tonnerre, 
I  say  it  is  funny!  And  my  Jeanne  saved  his  life,  and 
made  him  muffins,  and  gave  him  my  own  bed,  and 
walked  with  him  in  the  forest!  Ah,  the  ungrateful 
cochonl" 

He  turned,  laughing  openly,  so  that  his  deep  voice 
filled  the  cabin.  "Vous  avez  de  la  corde  de  pendu, 
m'sieu — yes,  you  are  a  lucky  dog !  For  only  one  other 
man  in  the  world  would  my  Jeanne  have  done  that. 
You  are  lucky  because  you  were  not  ended  behind  the 
rock ;  you  are  lucky  because  you  are  not  at  the  bottom 
of  the  river ;  you  are  lucky " 

He  shrugged  his  big  shoulders  hopelessly.  "And 
now,  after  all  our  kindness  and  your  good  luck,  you 
wait  for  me  like  an  enemy,  m'sieu.  Diable,  I  can  not 
understand !" 

For  the  life  of  him  Carrigan  could  not,  in  these  few 


170  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

moments,  measure  up  his  man.  He  had  said  nothing. 
He  had  let  St.  Pierre  talk.  And  now  St.  Pierre  stood 
there,  one  of  the  finest  men  he  had  ever  looked  upon, 
as  if  honestly  overcome  by  a  great  wonder.  And  yet 
behind  that  apparent  incredulity  in  his  voice  and  man 
ner  David  sensed  the  deep  underflow  of  another  thing. 
St.  Pierre  was  all  that  Marie-Anne  had  claimed  for 
him,  and  more.  She  had  given  him  assurance  of  her 
unlimited  confidence  that  her  husband  could  adjust  any 
situation  in  the  world,  and  Carrigan  conceded  that  St. 
Pierre  measured  up  splendidly  to  that  particular  type 
of  man.  The  smile  had  not  left  his  face;  the  good 
humor  was  still  in  his  eyes. 

David  smiled  back  at  him  coldly.  He  recognized  the 
cleverness  of  the  other's  play.  St.  Pierre  was  a  man 
who  would  smile  like  that  even  as  he  fought,  and  Car 
rigan  loved  a  smiling  fighter,  even  when  he  had  to  slip 
steel  bracelets  over  his  wrists. 

"I  am  Sergeant  Carrigan,  of  'N'  Division,  Royal 
Northwest  Mounted  Police,"  he  said,  repeating  the 
formula  of  the  law.  "Sit  down,  St.  Pierre,  and  I  will 
tell  you  a  few  things  that  have  happened.  And 
then " 

"Non,  non,  it  is  not  necessary,  m'sieu.  I  have 
already  listened  for  an  hour,  and  I  do  not  like  to  hear 
a  story  twice.  You  are  of  the  Police.  I  love  the  Police. 
They  are  brave  men,  and  brave  men  are  my  brothers. 
You  are  out  after  Roger  Audemard,  the  rascal !  Is  it 
not  so?  And  you  were  shot  at  behind  the  rock  back 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  171 

there.  You  were  almost  killed.  Ma  foi,  and  it  was  my 
Jeanne  who  did  the  shooting!  Yes,  she  thought  you 
were  another  man."  The  chuckling,  drum-like  note  of 
laughter  came  again  out  of  St.  Pierre's  great  chest. 
"It  was  bad  shooting.  I  have  taught  her  better,  but 
the  sun  was  blinding  there  in  the  hot,  white  sand.  And 
after  that — I  know  everything  that  has  happened. 
Bateese  was  wrong.  I  shall  scold  him  for  wanting 
to  put  you  at  the  bottom  of  the  river — perhaps.  Oui, 
ce  que  femme  veut,  Dieu  le  veut — that  is  it.  A  woman 
must  have  her  way,  and  my  Jeanne's  gentle  heart  was 
touched  because  you  were  a  brave  and  handsome  man, 
M'sieu  Carrigan.  But  I  am  not  jealous.  Jealousy 
is  a  worm  that  does  not  make  friendship!  And  we 
shall  be  friends.  Only  as  a  friend  could  I  take  you 
to  the  Chateau  Boulain,  far  up  on  the  Yellowknife. 
And  we  are  going  there." 

In  spite  of  what  might  have  been  the  entirely  proper 
thing  to  do  at  this  particular  moment,  Carrigan's  face 
broke  into  a  smile  as  he  drew  a  second  chair  up  close 
to  the  table.  He  was  swift  to  readjust  himself.  It 
came  suddenly  back  to  him  how  he  had  grinned  behind 
the  rock,  when  death  seemed  close  at  hand.  And 
St.  Pierre  was  like  that  now.  David  measured  him 
again  as  the  chief  of  the  Boulains  sat  down  opposite 
him.  Such  a  man  could  not  be  afraid  of  anything  on 
the  face  of  the  earth,  even  of  the  Law.  The  gleam  that 
lay  in  his  eyes  told  David  that  as  they  met  his  own 
over  the  table.  "We  are  smiling  now  because  it  hap- 


172  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

pens  to  please  us,"  David  read  in  them.  "But  in  a 
moment,  if  it  is  necessary,  we  shall  fight." 

Carrigan  leaned  a  little  over  the  table.  "You  know 
we  are  not  going  to  the  Chateau  Boulain,  St.  PieYre," 
he  said.  "We  are  going  to  stop  at  Fort  McMurray, 
and  there  you  and  your  wife  must  answer  for  a  num 
ber  of  things  that  have  happened.  There  is  one  way 
out — possibly.  That  is  largely  up  to  you.  Why  did 
your  wife  try  to  kill  me  behind  the  rock?  And  what 
did  you  know  about  Black  Roger  Audemard  ?" 

St.  Pierre's  eyes  did  not  for  an  instant  leave  Carri- 
gan's  face.  Slowly  a  change  came  into  them ;  the  smile 
faded,  the  blue  went  out,  and  up  from  behind  seemed  to 
come  another  pair  of  eyes  that  were  hard  as  steel  and 
cold  as  ice.  Yet  they  were  not  eyes  that  threatened, 
nor  eyes  that  betrayed  excitement  or  passion.  And 
St.  Pierre's  voice,  when  he  spoke,  lacked  the  deep  and 
vibrant  note  that  had  been  in  it.  It  was  as  if  he  had 
placed  upon  it  the  force  of  a  mighty  will,  chaining  it 
back,  just  as  something  hidden  and  terrible  lay  chained 
behind  his  eyes. 

"Why  play  like  little  children,  M'sieu  Carrigan?" 
he  asked.  "Why  not  come  out  squarely,  honestly,  like 
men  ?  I  know  what  has  happened.  Mon  Dieu,  it  was 
bad !  You  were  almost  killed,  and  you  heard  that  poor 
wreck,  Andre,  call  for  Roger  Audemard.  My  Jeanne 
has  told  you  about  that — how  I  found  him  in  the  for 
est  with  his  broken  mind  and  body.  And  about  my 
Jeanne "  St.  Pierre's  fists  grew  into  knotted  lumps 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  173 

on  the  table.  "Non,  I  will  die — I  will  kill  you — before 
I  will  tell  you  why  she  shot  at  you  behind  the  rock! 
We  are  men,  both  of  us.  We  are  not  afraid.  And 
you — in  my  place — what  would  you  do,  m'sieu?" 

In  the  moment's  silence  each  man  looked  steadily  at 
the  other. 

"I  would — fight,"  said  David  slowly.  "If  it  was  for 
her,  I  am  pretty  sure  I  would  fight." 

He  believed  that  he  was  drawing  the  net  in  now,  that 
it  would  catch  St.  Pierre.  He  leaned  a  little  farther 
over  the  table. 

"And  I,  too,  must  fight,"  he  added.  "You  know 
our  law,  St.  Pierre.  We  don't  go  back  without  our 
man — unless  we  happen  to  die.  And  I  would  be  stupid 
if  I  did  not  understand  the  situation  here.  It  would  be 
quite  easy  for  you  to  get  rid  of  me.  But  I  don't 
believe  you  are  a  murderer,  even  if  your  Jeanne  tried 
to  be."  A  flicker  of  a  smile  crossed  his  lips.  "And 
Marie-Anne — I  beg  pardon! — your  wife " 

St.  Pierre  interrupted  him.  "It  will  please  me  to 
have  you  call  her  Marie-Anne.  And  it  will  please  her 
also,  m'sieu.  Dieu,  if  we  only  had  eyes  that  could  see 
what  is  in  a  woman's  heart !  Life  is  funny,  m'sieu.  It 
is  a  great  joke,  I  swear  it  on  my  soul !" 

He  sThrugged  his  shoulders,  smiling  again  straight 
into  David's  eyes.  "See  what  has  happened !  You  set 
out  for  a  murderer.  My  Jeanne  makes  a  great  mistake 
and  shoots  you.  Then  she  pities  you,  saves  your  life, 
brings  you  here,  and — ma  foil  it  is  true — learns  to  care 


174  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

for  you  more  than  she  should !  But  that  does  not  make 
me  want  to  kill  you.  Non,  her  happiness  is  mine.  Dead 
men  tell  no  tales,  m'sieu,  but  there  are  times  when  liv 
ing  men  also  keep  tales  to  themselves.  And  that  is 
what  you  are  going  to  do,  M'sieu  Carrigan.  You  are 
going  to  keep  to  yourself  the  thing  that  happened  be 
hind  the  rock.  You  are  going  to  keep  to  yourself  the 
mumblings  of  our  poor  mad  Andre.  Never  will  they 
pass  your  lips.  I  know.  I  swear  it.  I  stake  my  life 
on  it !"  St.  Pierre  was  talking  slowly  and  unexcitedly. 
There  was  an  immeasurable  confidence  in  his  deep 
voice.  It  did  not  imply  a  threat  or  a  warning.  He  was 
sure  of  himself.  And  his  eyes  had  deepened  into  blue 
again  and  were  almost  friendly. 

"You  would  stake  your  life?"  repeated  Carrigan 
questioningly.  "You  would  do  that?" 

St.  Pierre  rose  to  his  feet  and  looked  about  the  cabin 
with  a  shining  light  in  his  eyes  that  was  both  pride 
and  exaltation.  He  moved  toward  the  end  of  the  room, 
where  the  piano  stood,  and  for  a  moment  his  big 
fingers  touched  the  keys;  then,  seeing  the  lacy  bit  of 
handkerchief  that  lay  there,  he  picked  it  up — and 
placed  it  back  again.  Carrigan  did  not  urge  his  ques 
tion,  but  waited.  In  spite  of  his  effort  to  fight  it  down 
he  found  himself  in  the  grip  of  a  mysterious  and  grow 
ing  thrill  as  he  watched  St.  Pierre.  Never  had  the 
presence  of  another  man  had  the  same  effect  upon  him, 
and  strangely  the  thought  came  to  him  that  he  was 
matched — even  overmatched.  It  was  as  if  St.  Pierre 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  175 

had  brought  with  him  into  the  cabin  something  more 
than  the  splendid  strength  of  his  body,  a  thing  that 
reached  out  in  the  interval  of  silence  between  them, 
warning  Carrigan  that  all  the  law  in  the  world  would 
not  swerve  the  chief  of  the  Boulains  from  what  was 
already  in  his  mind.  For  a  moment  the  thought  passed 
from  David  that  fate  had  placed  him  up  against  the 
hazard  of  enmity  with  St.  Pierre.  His  vision  centered 
in  the  man  alone.  And  as  he,  too,  rose  to  his  feet,  an 
unconscious  smile  came  to  his  lips  as  he  recalled  the 
boastings  of  Bateese. 

"I  ask  you,"  said  he,  "if  you  would  really  stake  your 
life  in  a  matter  such  as  that  ?  Of  course,  if  your  words 
were  merely  accidental,  and  meant  nothing " 

"If  I  had  a  dozen  lives,  I  would  stake  them,  one  on 
top  of  the  other,  as  I  have  said,"  interrupted  St.  Pierre. 
Suddenly  his  laugh  boomed  out  and  his  voice  became 
louder.  "M'sieu  Carrigan,  I  have  come  to  offer  you 
just  that  test !  Oui,  I  could  kill  you  now.  I  could  put 
you  at  the  bottom  of  the  river,  as  Bateese  thinks  is 
right.  Mon  Dicu,  how  completely  I  could  make  you 
disappear !  And  then  my  Jeanne  would  be  safe.  She 
would  not  go  behind  prison  bars.  She  would  go  on 
living,  and  laughing,  and  singing  in  the  big  forests, 
where  she  belongs.  And  Black  Roger  Audemard,  the 
rascal,  would  be  safe  for  a  time !  But  that  would  be 
like  destroying  a  little  child.  You  are  so  helpless  now. 
So  you  are  going  on  to  the  Chateau  Boulain  with  us, 
and  if  at  the  end  of  the  second  month  from  today  you 


176  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

do  not  willingly  say  I  have  won  my  wager — why 
— m'sieu — I  will  go  with  you  into  the  forest,  and  you 
may  shoot  out  of  me  the  life  which  is  my  end  of  the 
gamble.  Is  that  not  fair?  Can  you  suggest  a  better 
way — between  men  like  you  and  me?" 

"I  can  at  least  suggest  a  way  that  has  the  virtue  of 
saving  time,"  replied  David.  "First,  however,  I  must 
understand  my  position  here.  I  am,  I  take  it,  a 
prisoner." 

"A  guest,  with  certain  restrictions  placed  upon  you, 
m'sieu,"  corrected  St.  Pierre. 

The  eyes  of  the  two  men  met  on  a  dead  level. 

"Tomorrow  morning  I  am  going  to  fight  Bateese," 
said  David.  "It  is  a  little  sporting  event  we  have  fixed 
up  between  us  for  the  amusement  of — your  men.  I 
have  heard  that  Bateese  is  the  best  fighting  man  along 
the  Three  Rivers.  And  I — I  do  not  like  to  have  any 
other  man  claim  that  distinction  when  I  am  around." 

For  the  first  time  St.  Pierre's  placidity  seemed  to 
leave  him.  His  brow  became  clouded,  a  moment's 
frown  grew  in  his  face,  and  there  was  a  certain  dis 
consolate  hopelessness  in  the  shrug  of  his  shoulders. 
It  was  as  if  Carrigan's  words  had  suddenly  robbed  the 
day  of  all  its  sunshine  for  the  chief  of  the  Boulains. 
His  voice,  too,  carried  an  unhappy  and  disappointed 
note  as  he  made  a  gesture  toward  the  window. 

"M'sieu,  on  that  raft  out  there  are  many  of  my  men, 
and  they  have  scarcely  rested  or  slept  since  word  was 
brought  to  them  that  a  stranger  was  to  fight  Con- 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  177 

combre  Bateese.  Tonnerre,  they  have  gambled  without 
ever  seeing  you  until  the  clothes  on  their  backs  are  in 
the  hazard,  and  they  have  cracked  their  muscles  in  labor 
to  overtake  you!  They  have  prayed  away  their  very 
souls  that  it  would  be  a  good  fight,  and  that  Bateese 
would  not  eat  you  up  too  quickly.  It  has  been  a  long 
time  since  we  have  seen  a  good  fight,  a  long  time  since 
the  last  man  dared  to  stand  up  against  the  half-breed. 
Ugh,  it  tears  out  my  heart  to  tell  you  that  the  fight 
can  not  be !" 

St.  Pierre  made  no  effort  to  suppress  his  emotion. 
He  was  like  a  huge,  disappointed  boy.  He  walked  to 
the  window,  peered  forth  at  the  raft,  and  as  he 
shrugged  his  big  shoulders  again  something  like  a  groan 
came  from  him. 

The  thrill  of  approaching  triumph  swept  through 
David's  blood.  The  flame  of  it  was  in  his  eyes  when 
St.  Pierre  turned  from  the  window. 

"And  you  are  disappointed,  St.  Pierre?  You  would 
like  to  see  that  fight !" 

The  blue  steel  in  St.  Pierre's  eyes  flashed  back.  "If 
the  price  were  a  year  of  my  life,  I  would  give  it — if 
Bateese  did  not  eat  you  up  too  quickly.  I  love  to  look 
upon  a  good  fight,  where  there  is  no  venom  of  hatred 
in  the  blows !" 

"Then  you  shall  see  a  good  fight,  St.  Pierre." 

"Bateese  would  kill  you,  m'sieu.  You  are  not  big. 
You  are  not  his  match." 


1 78  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

"I  shall  whip  him,  St.  Pierre — whip  him  until  he 
avows  me  his  master." 

"You  do  not  know  the  half-breed,  m'sieu.  Twice 
I  have  tried  him  in  friendly  combat  myself  and  have 
been  beaten." 

"But  I  shall  whip  him,"  repeated  Carrigan.  "I  will 
wager  you  anything — anything  in  the  world — even  life 
against  life — that  I  whip  him !'' 

The  gloom  had  faded  from  the  face  of  St.  Pierre 
Boulain.  But  in  a  moment  it  clouded  again. 

"My  Jeanne  has  made  me  promise  that  I  will  stop 
the  fight,"  he  said. 

"And  why — why  should  she  insist  in  a  matter  such 
as  this,  which  properly  should  be  settled  among  men?" 
asked  David. 

Again  St.  Pierre  laughed ;  with  an  effort,  it  seemed. 
"She  is  gentle-hearted,  m'sieu.  She  laughed  and 
thought  it  quite  a  joke  when  Bateese  humbled  me. 
'What!  My  great  St.  Pierre,  with  the  blood  of  old 
France  in  his  veins,  beaten  by  a  man  who  has  been 
named  after  a  vegetable !'  she  cried.  I  tell  you  she  was 
merry  over  it,  m'sieu!  She  laughed  until  the  tears 
came  into  her  eyes.  But  with  you  it  is  different.  She 
was  white  when  she  entreated  me  not  to  let  you  fight 
Bateese.  Yes,  she  is  afraid  you  will  be  badly  hurt. 
And  she  does  not  want  to  see  you  hurt  again.  But  I 
tell  you  that  I  am  not  jealous,  m'sieu!  She  does  not 
try  to  hide  things  from  me.  She  tells  me  everything, 
like  a  little  child.  And  so " 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  179 

"I  am  going  to  fight  Bateese,"  said  David.  He  won 
dered  if  St.  Pierre  could  hear  the  thumping  of  his  heart, 
or  if  his  face  gave  betrayal  of  the  hot  flood  it  was 
pumping  through  his  body.  "Bateese  and  I  have 
pledged  ourselves.  LWe  shall  fight,  unless  you  tie  one 
of  us  hand  and  foot.  And  as  for  a  wager " 

"Yes — what  have  you  to  wager?"  demanded  St. 
Pierre  eagerly. 

"You  know  the  odds  are  great/'  temporized  Carri- 
gan. 

"That  I  concede,  m'sieu." 

"But  a  fight  without  a  wager  would  be  like  a  pipe 
without  tobacco,  St.  Pierre." 

"You  speak  truly,  m'sieu." 

David  came  nearer  and  laid  a  hand  on  the  other's 
arm.  "St.  Pierre,  I  hope  you — and  your  Jeanne — will 
understand  what  I  am  about  to  offer.  It  is  this.  If 
Bateese  whips  me,  I  will  disappear  into  the  forests, 
and  no  word  shall  ever  pass  my  lips  of  what  has  passed 
since  that  hour  behind  the  rock — and  this.  No  whisper 
of  it  will  ever  reach  the  Law.  I  will  forget  the  at 
tempted  murder  and  the  suspicious  mumblings  of  your 
Broken  Man.  You  will  be  safe.  Your  Jeanne  will  be 
safe — if  Bateese  whips  me." 

He  paused,  and  waited.  St.  Pierre  made  no  an 
swer,  but  amazement  came  into  his  face,  and  after  that 
a  slow  and  burning  fire  in  his  eyes  which  told  how 
deeply  and  vitally  Carrigan's  words  had  struck  into 
his  soul. 


i8o  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

"And  if  I  should  happen  to  win,"  continued  David, 
turning  a  bit  carelessly  toward  the  window,  "why,  I 
should  expect  as  large  a  payment  from  you.  If  I  win, 
your  fulfillment  of  the  wager  will  be  to  tell  me  in  every 
detail  why  your  wife  tried  to  kill  me  behind  the  rock, 
and  you  will  also  tell  me  all  that  you  know  about  the 
man  I  am  after,  Black  Roger  Audemard.  That  is  all. 
I  am  asking  for  no  odds,  though  you  concede  the  handi 
cap  is  great." 

He  did  not  look  at  St.  Pierre.  Behind  him  he  heard 
the  other's  deep  breathing.  For  a  space  neither  spoke. 
Outside  they  could  hear  the  soft  swish  of  water,  the 
low  voices  of  men  in  the  stern,  and  a  shout  and  the 
barking  of  a  dog  coming  from  the  raft  far  out  on  the 
river.  For  David  the  moment  was  one  of  suspense. 
He  turned  again,  a  bit  carelessly,  as  if  his  proposition 
were  a  matter  of  but  little  significance  to  him.  St. 
Pierre  was  not  looking  at  him.  He  was  staring  toward 
the  door,  as  if  through  it  he  could  see  the  powerful 
form  of  Bateese  bending  over  the  stern  sweep.  And 
Carrigan  could  see  that  his  face  was  flaming  with  a 
great  desire,  and  that  the  blood  in  his  body  was  pound 
ing  to  the  mighty  urge  of  it. 

Suddenly  he  faced  Carrigan. 

"M'sieu,  listen  to  me,"  he  said.  "You  are  a  brave 
man.  You  are  a  man  of  honor,  and  I  know  you  will 
bury  sacredly  in  your  heart  what  I  am  going  to  tell  you 
now,  and  never  let  a  word  of  it  escape — even  to  my 
Jeanne.  I  do  not  blame  you  for  loving  her.  Non! 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  181 

You  could  not  help  that.  You  have  fought  well  to  keep 
it  within  yourself,  and  for  that  I  honor  you.  How 
do  I  know  ?  Mon  Dieu,  she  has  told  me !  A  woman's 
heart  understands,  and  a  woman's  ears  are  quick  to 
hear,  m'sieu.  When  you  were  sick,  and  your  mind 
was  wandering,  you  told  her  again  and  again  that  you 
loved  her — and  when  she  brought  you  back  to  life, 
her  eyes  saw  more  than  once  the  truth  of  what  your 
lips  had  betrayed,  though  you  tried  to  keep  it  to  your 
self.  Even  more,  m'sieu — she  felt  the  touch  of  your 
lips  on  her  hair  that  day.  She  understands.  She  has 
told  me  everything,  openly,  innocently — yet  her  heart 
thrills  with  that  sympathy  of  a  woman  who  knows  she 
is  loved.  M'sieu,  if  you  could  have  seen  the  light  in 
her  eyes  and  the  glow  in  her  cheeks  as  she  told  me 
these  secrets.  But  I  am  not  jealous !  Non!  It  is  only 
because  you  are  a  brave  man,  and  one  of  honor,  that 
I  tell  you  all  this.  She  would  die  of  shame  did  she 
know  I  had  betrayed  her  confidence.  Yet  it  is  neces 
sary  that  I  tell  you,  because  if  we  make  the  big  wager 
we  must  drop  my  Jeanne  from  the  gamble.  Do  you 
comprehend  me,  m'sieu  ? 

"We  are  two  men,  strong  men,  fighting  men.  I — 
Pierre  Boulain — can  not  feel  the  shame  of  jealousy 
where  a  woman's  heart  is  pure  and  sweet,  and  where  a 
man  has  fought  against  love  with  honor  as  you  have 
fought.  And  you,  m'sieu — David  Carrigan,  of  the 
Police — can  not  strike  with  your  hard  man's  hand  that 
tender  heart,  that  is  like  a  flower,  and  which  this  mo- 


1 82  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

ment  is  beating  faster  than  it  should  with  the  fear  that 
some  harm  is  going  to  befall  you.  Is  it  not  so,  m'sieu? 
We  will  make  the  wager,  yes.  But  if  you  whip 
Bateese — and  you  can  not  do  that  in  a  hundred  years 
of  fighting — I  will  not  tell  you  why  my  Jeanne  shot 
at  you  behind  the  rock.  Non,  never!  Yet  I  swear  I 
will  tell  you  the  other.  If  you  win,  I  will  tell  you  all 
I  know  about  Roger  Audemard,  and  that  is  consider 
able,  m'sieu.  Do  you  agree?" 

Slowly  David  held  out  a  hand.  St.  Pierre's  gripped 
it.  The  fingers  of  the  two  men  met  like  bands  of  steel. 

"Tomorrow  you  will  fight,"  said  St.  Pierre.  "You 
will  fight  and  be  beaten  so  terribly  that  you  may  always 
show  the  marks  of  it.  I  am  sorry.  Such  a  man  as  you 
I  would  rather  have  as  a  brother  than  an  enemy.  And 
she  will  never  forgive  me.  She  will  always  remember 
it.  The  thought  will  never  die  out  of  her  heart  that  I 
was  a  beast  to  let  you  fight  Bateese.  But  it  is  best  for 
all.  And  my  men?  Ah!  Diable,  but  it  will  be  great 
sport  for  them,  m'sieu!" 

His  hand  unclasped.  He  turned  to  the  door,  A 
moment  later  it  closed  behind  him,  and  David  was 
alone.  He  had  not  spoken.  He  had  not  replied  to  the 
engulfing  truths  that  had  fallen  quietly  and  without  a 
betrayal  of  passion  from  St.  Pierre's  lips.  Inwardly 
he  was  crushed.  Yet  his  face  was  like  stone,  hiding 
his  shame.  And  then,  suddenly,  there  came  a  sound 
from  outside  that  sent  the  blood  through  his  cold  veins 
again.  It  was  laughter,  the  great,  booming  laughter 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  183 

of  St.  Pierre!  It  was  not  the  merriment  of  a  man 
whose  heart  was  bleeding,  or  into  whose  life  had  come 
an  unexpected  pain  or  grief.  It  was  wild  and  free,  and 
filled  with  the  joy  of  the  sun-filled  day. 

And  David,  listening  to  it,  felt  something  that  was 
more  than  admiration  for  this  man  growing  within 
him.  And  unconsciously  his  lips  repeated  St.  Pierre's 
words. 

"Tomorrow — you  will  fight." 


XVII 

1T?OR  many  minutes  David  stood  at  the  bateau  win- 
dow  and  watched  the  canoe  that  carried  St.  Pierre 
Boulain  and  the  Broken  Man  back  to  the  raft.  It 
-moved  slowly,  as  if  St.  Pierre  was  loitering  with  a  pur 
pose  and  was  thinking  deeply  of  what  had  passed. 
Carrigan's  fingers  tightened,  and  his  face  grew  tense, 
as  he  gazed  out  into  the  glow  of  the  western  sun.  Now 
that  the  stress  of  nerve-breaking  moments  in  the  cabin 
was  over,  he  no  longer  made  an  effort  to  preserve  the 
veneer  of  coolness  and  decision  with  which  he  had 
encountered  the  chief  of  the  Boulains.  Deep  in  his  soul 
he  was  crushed  and  humiliated.  Every  nerve  in  his 
body  was  bleeding. 

He  had  heard  St.  Pierre's  big  laugh  a  moment  be 
fore,  but  it  must  have  been  the  laugh  of  a  man  who 
was  stabbed  to  the  heart.  And  he  was  going  back  to 
Marie-Anne  like  that — drifting  scarcely  faster  than  the 
current  that  he  might  steal  time  to  strengthen  himself 
before  he  looked  into  her  eyes  again.  David  could  see 
him,  motionless,  his  giant  shoulders  hunched  forward 
a  little,  his  head  bowed,  and  in  the  stern  the  Broken 
Man  paddled  listlessly,  his  eyes  on  the  face  of  his 
master.  Without  voice  David  cursed  himself.  In  his 

184 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  185 

egoism  he  had  told  himself  that  he  had  made  a  splen 
did  fight  in  resisting  the  temptation  of  a  great  love  for 
the  wife  of  St.  Pierre.  But  what  was  his  own  struggle 
compared  with  this  tragedy  which  St.  Pierre  was  now 
facing  ? 

He  turned  from  the  window  and  looked  about  the 
cabin  room  again — the  woman's  room  and  St.  Pierre's 
— and  his  face  burned  in  its  silent  accusation.  Like  a 
living  thing  it  painted  another  picture  for  him.  For 
a  space  he  lost  his  own  identity.  He  saw  himself  in 
the  place  of  St.  Pierre.  He  was  the  husband  of  Marie- 
Anne,  worshipping  her  even  as  St.  Pierre  must  wor 
ship  her,  and  he  came,  as  St.  Pierre  had  come,  to  find 
a  stranger  in  his  home,  a  stranger  who  had  lain  in  his 
bed,  a  stranger  whom  his  wife  had  nursed  back  to  life, 
a  stranger  who  had  fallen  in  love  with  his  most  in 
violable  possession,  who  had  told  her  of  his  love,  who 
had  kissed  her,  who  had  held  her  close,  in  his  arms, 
whose  presence  had  brought  a  warmer  flush  and  a 
brighter  glow  into  eyes  and  cheeks  that  until  this 
stranger's  coming  had  belonged  only  to  him.  And  he 
heard  her,  as  St.  Pierre  had  heard  her,  pleading  with 
him  to  keep  this  man  from  harm;  he  heard  her  soft 
voice,  telling  of  the  things  that  had  passed  between 
them,  and  he  saw  in  her  eyes 

With  almost  a  cry  he  swept  the  thought  and  the  pic 
ture  from  him.  It  was  an  atrocious  thing  to  conceive, 
impossible  of  reality.  And  yet  the  truth  would  not  go. 
What  would  he  have  done  in  St.  Pierre's  place  ? 


1 86  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

He  v.:ent  to  the  window  again.  Yes,  St.  Pierre  was 
a  bigger  man  than  he.  For  St.  Pierre  had  come  quietly 
and  calmly,  offering  a  hand  of  friendship,  generous, 
smiling,  keeping  his  hurt  to  himself,  while  he,  Dave 
Carrigan,  would  have  come  with  the  murder  of  man  in 
his  heart. 

His  eyes  passed  from  the  canoe  to  the  raft,  and  from 
the  big  raft  to  the  hazy  billows  of  green  and  golden 
forest  that  melted  off  into  interminable  miles  of  dis 
tance  beyond  the  river.  He  knew  that  on  the  other 
side  of  him  lay  that  same  distance,  north,  east,  south, 
and  west,  vast  spaces  in  an  unpeopled  world,  the  same 
green  and  golden  forests,  ten  thousand  plains  and  rivers 
and  lakes,  a  million  hiding-places  where  romance  and 
tragedy  might  remain  forever  undisturbed.  The 
thought  came  to  him  that  it  would  not  be  difficult  to 
slip  out  into  that  world  and  disappear.  He  almost 
owed  it  to  St.  Pierre.  It  was  the  voice  of  Bateese  in 
a  snatch  of  wild  and  discordant  song  that  brought  him 
back  into  grim  reality.  There  was,  after  all,  that  em 
barrassing  matter  of  justice — and  the  accursed  Law ! 

After  a  little  he  observed  that  the  canoe  was  moving 
faster,  and  that  Andre's  paddle  was  working  steadily 
and  with  force.  St.  Pierre  no  longer  sat  hunched  in  the 
bow.  His  head  was  erect,  and  he  was  waving  a  hand 
in  the  direction  of  the  raft.  A  figure  had  come  from 
the  cabin  on  the  huge  mass  of  floating  timber.  David 
caught  the  shimmer  of  a  woman's  dress,  something 
white  fluttering  over  her  head,  waving  back  at  St. 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  187 

Pierre.  It  was  Marie-Anne,  and  he  moved  away  from 
the  window. 

He  wondered  what  was  passing  between  St.  Pierre 
and  his  wife  in  the  hour  that  followed.  The  bateau 
kept  abreast  of  the  raft,  moving  neither  faster  nor 
slower  than  it  did,  and  twice  he  surrendered  to  the 
desire  to  scan  the  deck  of  the  floating  timbers  through 
his  binoculars.  But  the  cabin  held  St.  Pierre  and 
Marie-Anne,  and  he  saw  neither  of  them  again  until  the 
sun  was  setting.  Then  St.  Pierre  came  out — alone. 

Even  at  that  distance  over  the  broad  river  he  heard 
the  booming  voice  of  the  chief  of  the  Boulains.  Life 
sprang  up  where  there  had  been  the  drowse  of  inactivity 
aboard  the  raft.  A  dozen  more  of  the  great  sweeps 
were  swiftly  manned  by  men  who  appeared  suddenly 
from  the  shaded  places  of  canvas  shelters  and  striped 
tents.  A  murmur  of  voices  rose  over  the  water,  and 
then  the  murmur  was  broken  by  howls  and  shouts  as 
the  rivermen  ran  to  their  places  at  the  command  of 
St.  Pierre's  voice,  and  as  the  sweeps  began  to  flash  in 
the  setting  sun,  it  gave  way  entirely  to  the  evening 
chant  of  the  Paddling  Song. 

David  gripped  himself  as  he  listened  and  watched 
the  slowly  drifting  glory  of  the  world  that  came  down 
to  the  shores  of  the  river.  He  could  see  St.  Pierre 
clearly,  for  the  bateau  had  worked  its  way  nearer.  He 
could  see  the  bare  heads  and  naked  arms  of  the  river- 
men  at  the  sweeps.  The  sweet  breath  of  the  forests 
filled  his  lungs,  as  that  picture  lay  before  him,  and  there 


i88  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

came  into  his  soul  a  covetousness  and  a  yearning  where 
before  there  had  been  humiliation  and  the  grim  urge  of 
duty.  He  could  breathe  the  air  of  that  world,  he  could 
look  at  its  beauty,  he  could  worship  it — and  yet  he 
knew  that  he  was  not  a  part  of  it  as  those  others  were 
a  part  of  it.  He  envied  the  men  at  the  sweeps ;  he  felt 
his  heart  swelling  at  the  exultation  and  joy  in  their 
song.  They  were  going  home — home  down  the  big 
rivers,  home  to  the  heart  of  God's  Country,  where 
wives  and  sweethearts  and  happiness  were  waiting  for 
them,  and  their  visions  were  his  visions  as  he  stared 
wide-eyed  and  motionless  over  the  river.  And  yet  he 
was  irrevocably  an  alien.  He  was  more  than  that — an 
enemy,  a  man-hound  sent  out  on  a  trail  to  destroy,  an 
agent  of  a  powerful  and  merciless  force  that  carried 
with  it  punishment  and  death. 

The  crew  of  the  bateau  had  joined  in  the  evening 
song  of  the  rivermen  on  the  raft,  and  over  the  ridges 
and  hollows  of  the  forest  tops,  red  and  green  and  gold 
in  the  last  warm  glory  of  the  sun,  echoed  that  chant 
ing  voice  of  men.  David  understood  now  what  St. 
Pierre's  command  had  been.  The  huge  raft  with  its 
tented  city  of  life  was  preparing  to  tie  up  for  the  night. 
A  quarter  of  a  mile  ahead  the  river  widened,  so  that 
on  the  far  side  was  a  low,  clean  shore  toward  which 
the  efforts  of  the  men  at  the  sweeps  were  slowly  edging 
the  raft.  York  boats  shot  out  on  the  shore  side  and 
dropped  anchors  that  helped  drag  the  big  craft  in. 
Two  others  tugged  at  tow-lines  fastened  to  the  shore- 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  189 

side  bow,  and  within  twenty  minutes  the  first  men  were 
plunging  up  out  of  the  water  on  the  white  strip  of 
beach  and  were  whipping  the  tie-lines  about  the  near 
est  treets.  David  unconsciously  was  smiling  in  the  thrill 
and  triumph  of  these  last  moments,  and  not  until  they 
were  over  did  he  sense  the  fact  that  Bateese  and  his 
crew  were  bringing  the  bateau  in  to  the  opposite  shore. 
Before  the  sun  was  quite  down,  both  raft  and  house 
boat  were  anchored  for  the  night. 

As  the  shadows  of  the  distant  forests  deepened,  Car- 
rigan  felt  impending  about  him  an  oppression  of  empti 
ness  and  loneliness  which  he  had  not  experienced  be 
fore.  He  was  disappointed  that  the  bateau  had  not 
tied  up  with  the  raft.  Already  he  could  see  men  build 
ing  fires.  Spirals  of  smoke  began  to  rise  from  the 
shore,  and  he  knew  that  the  riverman's  happiest  of  all 
hours,  supper  time,  was  close  at  hand.  He  looked  at 
his  watch.  It  was  after  seven  o'clock.  Then  he 
watched  the  fading  away  of  the  sun  until  only  the  red 
glow  of  it  remained  in  the  west,  and  against  the  still 
thicker  shadows  the  fires  of  the  rivermen  threw  up 
yellow  flames.  On  his  own  side,  Bateese  and  the 
bateau  crew  were  preparing  their  meal.  It  was  eight 
o'clock  when  a  man  he  had  not  seen  before  brought  in 
his  supper.  He  ate,  scarcely  sensing  the  taste  of  his 
food,  and  half  an  hour  later  the  man  reappeared  for 
the  dishes. 

It  was  not  quite  dark  when  he  returned  to  his  win 
dow,  but  the  far  shore  was  only  an  indistinct  blur  of 


190  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

gloom.  The  fires  were  brighter.  One  of  them,  built 
solely  because  of  the  rivermen's  inherent  love  of  light 
and  cheer,  threw  the  blaze  of  its  flaming  logs  twenty 
feet  into  the  air. 

He  wondered  what  Marie-Anne  was  doing  in  this 
hour.  Last  night  they  had  been  together.  He  had 
marveled  at  the  witchery  of  the  moonlight  in  her  hair 
and  eyes,  he  had  told  her  of  the  beauty  of  it,  she  had 
smiled,  she  had  laughed  softly  with  him — for  hours 
they  had  sat  in  the  spell  of  the  golden  night  and  the 
glory  of  the  river.  And  tonight — now — was  she  with 
St.  Pierre,  waiting  as  they  had  waited  last  night  for 
the  rising  of  the  moon?  Had  she  forgotten?  Could 
she  forget?  Or  was  she,  as  he  thought  St.  Pierre  had 
painfully  tried  to  make  him  believe,  innocent  of  all  the 
thoughts  and  desires  that  had  come  to  him,  as  he  sat 
worshipping  her  in  their  stolen  hours  ?  He  could  think 
of  them  only  as  stolen,  for  he  did  not  believe  Marie- 
Anne  had  revealed  to  her  husband  all  she  might  have 
told  him. 

He  was  sure  he  would  never  see  her  again  as  he  had 
seen  her  then,  and  something  of  bitterness  rose  in  him 
as  he  thought  of  that.  St.  Pierre,  could  he  have  seen 
her  face  and  eyes  when  he  told  her  that  her  hair  in 
the  moonlight  was  lovelier  than  anything  he  had  ever 
seen,  would  have  throttled  him  with  his  naked  hands  in 
that  meeting  in  the  cabin.  For  St.  Pierre's  code  would 
not  have  had  her  eyes  droop  under  their  long  lashes 
or  her  cheeks  flush  so  warmly  at  the  words  of  another 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  191 

man — and  he  could  not  take  vengeance  on  the  woman 
herself.  No,  she  had  not  told  St.  Pierre  all  she  might 
have  told!  There  were  things  which  she  must  have 
kept  to  herself,  which  she  dared  not  reveal  even  to  this 
great-hearted  man  who  was  her  husband.  Shame,  if 
nothing  more,  had  kept  her  silent. 

Did  she  feel  that  shame  as  he  was  feeling  it  ?  It  was 
inconceivable  to  think  otherwise.  And  for  that  reason, 
more  than  all  others,  he  knew  that  she  would  not  meet 
him  face  to  face  again — unless  he  forced  that  meet 
ing.  And  there  was  little  chance  of  that,  for  his  pledge 
with  St.  Pierre  had  eliminated  her  from  the  aftermath 
of  tomorrow's  drama,  his  fight  with  Bateese.  Only 
when  St.  Pierre  might  stand  in  a  court  of  law  would 
there  be  a  possibility  of  her  eyes  meeting  his  own  again, 
and  then  they  would  fbme  with  the  hatred  that  at  an 
other  time  had  been  in  the  eyes  of  Carmin  Fanchet. 

With  the  dull  stab  of  a  thing  that  of  late  had  been 
growing  inside  him,  he  wondered  what  had  happened 
to  Carmin  Fanchet  in  the  years  that  had  gone  since 
he  had  brought  about  the  hanging  of  her  brother.  Last 
night  and  the  night  before,  strange  dreams  of  her  had 
come  to  him  in  restless  slumber.  It  was  disturbing 
to  him  that  he  should  wake  up  in  the  middle  of  the 
night  dreaming  of  her,  when  he  had  gone  to  his  bed 
with  a  mind  filled  to  overflowing  with  the  sweet  pres 
ence  of  Marie-Anne  Boulain.  And  now  his  mind 
reached  out  poignantly  into  mysterious  darkness  and 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

doubt,  even  as  the  darkness  of  night  spread  itself  in  a 
thickening  canopy  over  the  river. 

Gray  clouds  had  followed  the  sun  of  a  faultless  day, 
and  the  stars  were  veiled  overhead.  When  David 
turned  from  the  window,  it  was  so  dark  in  the  cabin 
that  he  could  not  see.  He  did  not  light  the  lamps,  but 
made  his  way  to  St.  Pierre's  couch  and  sat  down  in  the 
silence  and  gloom. 

Through  the  open  windows  came  to  him  the  cadence 
of  the  river  and  the  forests.  There  was  silence  of  hu 
man  voice  ashore,  but  under  him  he  heard  the  lapping 
murmur  of  water  as  it  rustled  under  the  stern  and  side 
of  the  bateau,  and  from  the  deep  timber  came  the  never- 
ceasing  whisper  of  the  spruce  and  cedar  tops,  and  the 
subdued  voice  of  creatures  whose  hours  of  activity  had 
come  with  the  dying  out  of  the  sun. 

For  a  long  time  he  sat  in  this  darkness.  And  then 
there  came  to  him  a  sound  that  was  different  than  the 
other  sounds — a  low  monotone  of  voices,  the  dipping  of 
a  paddle — and  a  canoe  passed  close  under  his  windows 
and  up  the  shore.  He  paid  small  attention  to  it  until, 
a  little  later,  the  canoe  returned,  and  its  occupants 
boarded  the  bateau.  It  would  have  roused  little  interest 
in  him  then  had  he  not  heard  a  voice  that  was  thrill- 
ingly  like  the  voice  of  a  woman. 

He  drew  his  hunched  shoulders  erect  and  stared 
through  the  darkness  toward  the  door.  A  moment 
more  and  there  was  no  doubt.  It  was  almost  shock 
that  sent  the  blood  leaping  suddenly  through  his  veins. 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  193 

The  inconceivable  had  happened.  It  was  Marie-Anne 
out  there,  talking  in  a  low  voice  to  Bateese ! 

Then  there  came  a  heavy  knock  at  his  door,  and  he 
heard  the  door  open.  Through  it  he  saw  the  grayer 
gloom  of  the  outside  night  partly  shut  out  a  heavy 
shadow. 

"M'sieu !"  called  the  voice  of  Bateese. 

"I  am  here,"  said  David. 

"You  have  not  gone  i;o  bed,  m'sieu?" 

"No." 

The  heavy  shadow  seemed  to  fade  away,  and  yet 
there  still  remained  a  shadow  there.  David's  heart 
thumped  as  he  noted  the  slenderness  of  it.  For  a 
space  there  was  silence.  And  then, 

"Will  you  light  the  lamps,  M'sieu  David?"  a  soft 
voice  came  to  him.  "I  want  to  come  in,  and  I  am 
afraid  of  this  terrible  darkness !" 

He  rose  to  his  feet,  fumbling  in  his  pocket  for 
matches. 


XVIII 

TTE  did  not  turn  toward  Marie-Anne  when  he  had 

lighted  the  first  of  the  great  brass  lamps  hanging 

at  the  side  of  the  bateau.    He  went  to  the  second,  and 

struck  another  match,  and  flooded  the  cabin  with  light. 

She  still  stood  silhouetted  against  the  darkness  be 
yond  the  cabin  door  when  he  faced  her.  She  was 
watching  him,  her  eyes  intent,  her  face  a  little  pale,  he 
thought.  Then  he  smiled  and  nodded.  He  could  not 
see  a  great  change  in  her  since  this  afternoon,  ex 
cept  that  there  seemed  to  be  a  little  more  fire  in  the 
glow  of  her  eyes.  They  were  looking  at  him  steadily 
as  she  smiled  and  nodded,  wide,  beautiful  eyes  in  which 
there  was  surely  no  revelation  of  shame  or  regret,  and 
no  very  clear  evidence  of  unhappiness.  David  stared, 
and  his  tongue  clove  to  the  roof  of  his  mouth. 

"Why  is  it  that  you  sit  in  darkness?''  she  asked, 
stepping  within  and  closing  the  door.  "Did  you  not 
expect  me  to  return  and  apologize  for  leaving  you  so 
suddenly  this  afternoon?  It  was  impolite.  Afterward 

I  was  ashamed.     But  I  was  excited,  M'sieu  David, 
j » 

"Of  course,"  he  hurried  to  interrupt  her.  "I  under 
stand.  St.  Pierre  is  a  lucky  man.  I  congratulate  you 

194 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  195 

— as  well  as  him.  He  is  splendid,  a  man  in  whom  you 
can  place  great  faith  and  confidence." 

"He  scolded  me  for  running  away  from  you  as  I 
did,  M'sieu  David.  He  said  I  should  have  shown  bet 
ter  courtesy  than  to  leave  like  that  one  who  was  a  guest 
in  our — home.  So  I  have  returned,  like  a  good  child, 
to  make  amends." 

"It  was  not  necessary." 

"But  you  were  lonesome  and  in  darkness  !" 

He  nodded.    "Yes." 

"And  besides,"  she  added,  so  quietly  and  calmly 
that  he  was  amazed,  "you  know  my  sleeping  apartment 
is  also  on  the  bateau.  And  St.  Pierre  made  me  promise 
to  say  good  night  to  you." 

"It  is  an  imposition,"  cried  David,  the  blood  rush 
ing  to  his  face.  "You  have  given  up  all  this  to  me ! 
Why  not  let  me  go  into  that  little  room  forward,  or 
sleep  on  the  raft  and  you  and  St.  Pierre " 

"St.  Pierre  would  not  leave  the  raft,"  replied  Marie- 
Anne,  turning  from  him  toward  the  table  on  which 
were  the  books  and  magazines  and  her  work-basket. 
"And  I  like  my  little  room  forward." 

"St.  Pierre- 
He  stopped  himself.  He  could  see  a  sudden  color 
deepening  in  the  cheek  of  St.  Pierre's  wife  as  she  made 
pretense  of  looking  for  something  in  her  basket.  He 
felt  that  if  he  went  on  he  would  blunder,  if  he  had  not 
already  blundered.  He  was  uncomfortable,  for  he  be 
lieved  he  had  guessed  the  truth.  It  was  not  quite  rea- 


196  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

sonable  to  expect  that  Marie-Anne  would  come  to  him 
like  this  on  the  first  night  of  St.  Pierre's  homecoming. 
Something  had  happened  over  in  the  little  cabin  on 
the  raft,  he  told  himself.  Perhaps  there  had  been  a 
quarrel — at  least  ironical  implications  on  St.  Pierre's 
part.  And  his  sympathy  was  with  St.  Pierre. 

He  caught  suddenly  a  little  tremble  at  the  corner  of 
Marie-Anne's  mouth  as  her  face  was  turned  partly 
from  him,  and  he  stepped  to  the  opposite  side  of  the 
table  so  he  could  look  at  her  fairly.  If  there  had  been 
unpleasantness  in  the  cabin  on  the  raft,  St.  Pierre's 
wife  in  no  way  gave  evidence  of  it.  The  color  had 
deepened  to  almost  a  blush  in  her  cheeks,  but  it  was  not 
on  account  of  embarrassment,  for  one  who  is  embar 
rassed  is  not  usually  amused,  and  as  she  looked  up  at 
him  her  eyes  were  filled  with  the  flash  of  laughter  which 
he  had  caught  her  lips  struggling  to  restrain.  Then, 
finding  a  bit  of  lace  work  with  the  needles  meshed  in  it, 
she  seated  herself,  and  again  he  was  looking  down  on 
the  droop  of  her  long  lashes  and  the  seductive  glow  of 
her  lustrous  hair.  Yesterday,  in  a  moment  of  irresist 
ible  impulse,  he  had  told  her  how  lovely  it  was  as  she 
had  dressed  it,  a  bewitching  crown  of  interwoven  coils, 
not  drawn  tightly,  but  crumpled  and  soft,  as  if  the 
mass  of  tresses  were  openly  rebelling  at  closer  con 
finement.  She  had  told  him  the  effect  was  entirely  acci 
dental,  largely  due  to  carelessness  and  haste  in  dressing 
it.  Accidental  or  otherwise,  it  was  the  same  tonight, 
and  in  the  heart  of  it  were  the  drooping  red  petals  of  a 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  197 

flower  she  had  gathered  with  him  early  that  afternoon. 

"St.  Pierre  brought  me  over,"  she  said  in  a  calmly 
matter-of-fact  voice,  as  though  she  had  expected  David 
to  know  that  from  the  beginning.  "He  is  ashore  talk 
ing  over  important  matters  with  Bateese.  I  am  sure  he 
will  drop  in  and  say  good  night  before  he  returns  to 
the  raft.  He  asked  me  to  wait  for  him — here."  She 
raised  her  eyes,  so  clear  and  untroubled,  so  quietly  un 
embarrassed  under  his  gaze,  that  he  would  have  staked 
his  life  she  had  no  suspicion  of  the  confessions  which 
St.  Pierre  had  revealed  to  him. 

"Do  you  care?  Would  you  rather  put  out  the  lights 
and  go  to  bed  ?" 

He  shook  his  head.  "No.  I  am  glad.  I  was  beastly 
lonesome.  I  had  an  idea " 

He  was  on  the  point  of  blundering  again  when  he 
caught  himself.  The  effect  of  her  so  near  him  was 
more  than  ever  disturbing,  in  spite  of  St.  Pierre.  Her 
eyes,  clear  and  steady,  yet  soft  as  velvet  when  they 
looked  at  him,  made  his  tongue  and  his  thoughts  dan 
gerously  uncertain. 

"You  had  an  idea,  M'sieu  David?" 

"That  you  would  have  no  desire  to  see  me  again  after 
my  talk  with  St.  Pierre,"  he  said.  "Did  he  tell  you 
about  it?" 

"He  said  you  were  very  fine,  M'sieu  David — and 
that  he  liked  you." 

"And  he  told  you  it  is  determined  that  I  shall  fight 
Bateese  in  the  morning?" 


198  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

"Yes." 

The  one  word  was  spoken  with  a  quiet  lack  of  ex 
citement,  even  of  interest — it  seemed  to  belie  some  of 
the  things  St.  Pierre  had  told  him,  and  he  could 
scarcely  believe,  looking  at  her  now,  that  she  had  en 
treated  her  husband  to  prevent  the  encounter,  or  that 
she  had  betrayed  any  unusual  emotion  in  the  matter  at 
all. 

"I  was  afraid  you  would  object,"  he  could  not  keep 
from  saying.  "It  does  not  seem  nice  to  pull  off  such 
a  thing  as  that,  when  there  is  a  lady  about " 

"Or  ladies."  She  caught  him  up  quickly,  and  he 
saw  a  sudden  little  tightening  of  her  pretty  mouth  as 
she  turned  her  eyes  to  the  bit  of  lace  work  again.  "But 
I  do  not  object,  because  what  St.  Pierre  says  is  right 
— must  be  right." 

And  the  softness,  he  thought,  went  altogether  out 
of  the  curve  of  her  lips  for  an  instant.  In  a  flash  their 
momentary  betrayal  of  vexation  was  gone,  and  St. 
Pierre's  wife  had  replaced  the  work-basket  on  the  table 
and  was  on  her  feet,  smiling  at  him.  There  was  some 
thing  of  wild  daring  in  her  eyes,  something  that  made 
him  think  of  the  glory  of  adventure  he  had  seen  flam 
ing  in  her  face  the  night  they  had  run  the  rapids  of  the 
Holy  Ghost. 

"Tomorrow  will  be  very  unpleasant,  M'sieu  David," 
she  cried  softly.  "Bateese  will  beat  you — terribly.  To 
night  we  must  think  of  things  more  agreeable." 

He  had  never  seen  her  more  radiant  than  when  she 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  199 

turned  toward  the  piano.  What  the  deuce  did  it  mean  ? 
Had  St.  Pierre  been  making  a  fool  of  him?  She 
actually  appeared  unable  to  restrain  her  elation  at  the 
thought  that  Bateese  would  surely  beat  him  up!  He 
stood  without  moving  and  made  no  effort  to  answer 
her.  Just  before  they  had  started  on  that  thrilling  ad 
venture  into  the  forest,  which  had  ended  with  his  carry 
ing  her  in  his  arms,  she  had  gone  to  the  piano  and  had 
played  for  him.  Now  her  fingers  touched  softly  the 
same  notes.  A  little  humming  trill  came  in  her  throat, 
and  it  seemed  to  David  that  she  was  deliberately  re 
calling  his  thoughts  to  the  things  that  had  happened  be 
fore  the  coming  of  St.  Pierre.  He  had  not  lighted 
the  lamp  over  the  piano,  and  for  a  flash  her  dark  eyes 
smiled  at  him  out  of  the  half  shadow.  After  a  mo 
ment  she  began  to  sing. 

Her  voice  was  low  and  without  effort,  untrained,  and 
subdued  as  if  conscious  and  afraid  of  its  limitations, 
yet  so  exquisitely  sweet  that  to  David  it  was  a  new 
and  still  more  wonderful  revelation  of  St.  Pierre's  wife. 
He  drew  nearer,  until  he  stood  close  at  her  side,  the 
dark  luster  of  her  hair  almost  touching  his  arm,  her 
partly  upturned  face  a  bewitching  profile  in  the 
shadows. 

Her  voice  grew  lower,  almost  a  whisper  in  its  mel 
ody,  as  if  meant  for  him  alone.  Many  times  he  had 
heard  the  Canadian  Boat  Song,  but  never  as  its  words 
came  now  from  the  lips  of  Marie- Anne  Boulain. 


200  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

"Faintly  as  tolls  the  evening  chime, 
Our  voices  keep  tune,  and  our  oars  keep  time. 
Soon  as  the  woods  on  shore  look  dim, 
We'll  sing  at  St.  Ann's  our  parting  hymn; 
Row,  brothers,  row,  the  stream  runs  fast, 
The  rapids  are  near,  and  the  daylight's  past." 

She  paused.  And  David,  staring  down  at  her  shining 
head,  did  not  speak.  Her  fingers  trembled  over  the 
keys,  he  could  see  dimly  the  shadow  of  her  long  lashes, 
and  the  spirit-like  scent  of  crushed  violets  rose  to  him 
from  the  soft  lace  about  her  throat  and  her  hair. 

"It  is  your  music,"  he  whispered.  "I  have  never 
heard  the  Boat  Song  like  that!" 

He  tried  to  drag  his  eyes  from  her  face  and  hair, 
sensing  that  he  was  a  near-criminal,  fighting  a  mighty 
impulse.  The  notes  under  her  fingers  changed,  and 
again — by  chance  or  design — she  was  stabbing  at  him, 
bringing  him  face  to  face  with  the  weakness  of  his 
flesh,  the  iniquity  of  his  desire  to  reach  out  his  arms 
and  crumple  her  in  them.  Yet  she  did  not  look  up, 
she  did  not  see  him,  as  she  began  to  sing  "Ave  Maria." 

"Ave,  Maria,  hear  my  cry! 
O,  guide  my  path  where  no  harm,  no  harm  is  nigh " 


As  she  went  on,  he  knew  she  had  forgotten  to  think 
of  him.  With  the  reverence  of  a  prayer  the  holy  words 
came  from  her  lips,  slowly,  softly,  trembling  with  a 
pathos  and  sweetness  that  told  David  they  came  not 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  201 

alone  from  the  lips,  but    from    the  very  soul  of  St. 
Pierre's  wife. 
And  then • 

"Oh,  Mother,  hear  me  where  thou  art, 
And  guard  and  guide  my  aching  heart,  my  aching  heart !" 

The  last  words  drifted  away  into  a  whisper,  and 
David  was  glad  that  he  was  .not  looking  into  the  face 
of  St.  Pierre's  wife,  for  there  must  have  been  some 
thing  there  now  which  it  would  have  been  sacrilege  for 
him  to  stare  at,  as  he  was  staring  at  her  hair. 

No  sound  of  opening  door  had  come  from  behind 
them.  Yet  St.  Pierre  had  opened  it  and  stood  there, 
watching  them  with  a  curious  humor  in  eyes  that 
seemed  still  to  hold  a  glitter  of  the  fire  that  had  leaped 
from  the  half-breed's  flaming  birch  logs.  His  voice 
was  a  shock  to  Carrigan. 

"Peste,  but  you  are  a  gloomy  pair!"  he  boomed. 
"Why  no  light  over  there  in  the  corner,  and  why  sing 
that  death-song  to  chase  away  the  devil  when  there  is 
no  devil  near?" 

Guilt  was  in  David's  heart,  but  there  was  no  sting 
of  venom  in  St.  Pierre's  words,  and  he  was  laughing 
at  them  now,  as  though  what  he  saw  were  a  pretty  joke 
and  amused  him. 

"Late  hours  and  shady  bowers !  I  say  it  should  be  a 
love  song  or  something  livelier,"  he  cried,  closing  the 
door  behind  him  and  coming  toward  them.  "Why  not 


202  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

En  Roulant  ma  Boule,  my  sweet  Jeanne?    You  know 
that  is  my  favorite." 

He  suddenly  interrupted  himself,  and  his  voice  rolled 
out  in  a  wild  chant  that  rocked  the  cabin. 

"The  wind  is  fresh,  the  wind  is  free, 

En  roulant  ma  boule! 
The  wind  is  fresh — my  love  waits  me, 

Rouli,  roulant,  ma  boule  roulant! 
Behind  our  house  a  spring  you  see, 

In  it  three  ducks  swim  merrily, 
And  hunting-,  the  Prince's  son  went  he, 

With  a  silver  gun  right  fair  to  see " 


David  was  conscious  that  St.  Pierre's  wife  had  risen 
to  her  feet,  and  now  she  came  out  of  shadow  into 
light,  and  he  was  amazed  to  see  that  she  was  laughing 
back  at  St.  Pierre,  and  that  her  two  fore-fingers  were 
thrust  in  her  ears  to  keep  out  the  bellow  of  her  hus 
band's  voice.  She  was  not  at  all  discomfited  by  his  un 
expected  appearance,  but  rather  seemed  to  join  in  the 
humor  of  the  thing  with  St.  Pierre,  though  he  fancied 
he  could  see  something  in  her  face  that  was  forced  and 
uneasy.  He  believed  that  under  the  surface  of  her  com 
posure  she  was  suffering  a  distress  which  she  did  not 
reveal. 

St.  Pierre  advanced  and  carelessly  patted  her  shoul 
der  with  one  of  his  big  hands,  while  he  spoke  to  David. 

"Has  she  not  the  sweetest  voice  in  the  world, 
tn'sieu?  Did  you  ever  hear  a  sweeter  or  as  sweet?  I 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  203 

say  it  is  enough  to  get  down  into  the  soul  of  a  man, 
unless  he  is  already  half  dead !  That  voice " 

He  caught  Marie-Anne's  eyes.  Her  cheeks  were 
flaming.  Her  look,  for  an  instant,  flashed  lightning 
as  she  halted  him. 

"Ma  foi,  I  speak  it  from  the  heart,"  he  persisted, 
with  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders.  "Am  I  not  right, 
M'sieu  Carrigan?  Did  you  ever  hear  a  sweeter 
voice?" 

"It  is  wonderful,"  agreed  David,  wondering  if  he 
was  hazarding  too  much. 

"Good!  It  fills  me  with  happiness  to  know  I  am 
right.  And  now,  ch-erie,  good-night!  I  must  return 
to  the  raft." 

A  shadow  of  vexation  crossed  Marie- Anne's  face. 
"You  seem  in  great  haste." 

"Plagues  and  pests!  You  are  right,  Pretty  Voice! 
I  am  most  anxious  to  get  back  to  my  troubles  there, 
and  you " 

"Will  also  bid  M'sieu  Carrigan  good-night,"  she 
quickly  interrupted  him.  "You  will  at  least  see  me  to  my 
room,  St.  Pierre,  and  safely  put  away  for  the  night." 

She  held  out  her  hand  to  David.  There  was  not  a 
tremor  in  it  as  it  lay  for  an  instant  soft  and  warm  in 
his  own.  She  made  no  effort  to  withdraw  it  quickly, 
nor  did  her  eyes  hide  their  softness  as  they  looked 
into  his  own. 

Mutely  David  stood  as  they  went  out.  He  heard 
St.  Pierre's  loud  voice  rumbling  about  the  darkness 


204  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

of  the  night.  He  heard  them  pass  along  the  side  of  the 
bateau  forward,  and  half  a  minute  later  he  knew  that 
St.  Pierre  was  getting  into  his  canoe.  The  dip  of  a 
paddle  came  to  him. 

For  a  space  there  was  silence,  and  then,  from  far 
out  in  the  black  shadow  of  the  river,  rolled  back  the 
great  voice  of  St.  Pierre  Boulain  singing  the  wild 
river  chant,  "En  Roulant  ma  Boule." 

At  the  open  window  he  listened.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  from  far  over  the  river,  where  the  giant  raft  lay, 
there  came  a  faint  answer  to  the  words  of  the  song. 


XIX 

the  slow  approach  of  the  storm  which  was 
advancing  over  the  wilderness,  Carrigan  felt 
more  poignantly  the  growing  unrest  that  was  in  him. 
He  heard  the  last  of  St.  Pierre's  voice,  and  after  that 
the  fires  on  the  distant  shore  died  out  slowly,  giving 
way  to  utter  blackness.  Faintly  there  came  to  him  the 
far-away  rumbling  of  thunder.  The  air  grew  heavy  and 
thick,  and  there  was  no  sound  of  night-bird  over  the 
breast  of  the  river,  and  out  of  the  thick  cedar  and 
spruce  and  balsam  there  came  no  cry  or  whisper  of 
the  nocturnal  life  waiting  in  silence  for  the  storm  to 
break.  In  that  stillness  David  put  out  the  lights  in 
the  cabin  and  sat  close  to  the  window  in  darkness. 

He  was  more  than  sleepless.  Every  nerve  in  his 
body  demanded  action,  and  his  brain  was  fired  by 
strange  thoughts  until  their  vividness  seemed  to  bring 
him  face  to  face  with  a  reality  that  set  his  blood  stir 
ring  with  an  irresistible  thrill.  He  believed  he  had 
made  a  discovery,  that  St.  Pierre  had  betrayed  him 
self.  What  he  had  visioned,  the  conclusion  he  had 
arrived  at,  seemed  inconceivable,  yet  what  his  own 
eyes  had  seen  and  his  ears  had  heard  pointed  to  the 
truth  of  it  all.  The  least  he  could  say  was  that  St. 

205 


206  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

Pierre's  love  for  Marie-Anne  Boulain  was  a  strange 
sort  of  love.  His  attitude  toward  her  seemed  more 
like  that  of  a  man  in  the  presence  of  a  child  of  whom 
he  was  fond  in  a  fatherly  sort  of  way.  His  affection, 
as  he  had  expressed  it,  was  parental  and  careless.  Not 
for  an  instant  had  there  been  in  it  a  betrayal  of  the 
lover,  no  suggestion  of  the  husband  who  cared  deeply 
or  who  might  be  made  jealous  by  another  man. 

Sitting  in  darkness  thickening  with  the  nearer  ap 
proach  of  storm,  David  recalled  the  stab  of  pain 
mingled  with  humiliation  that  had  come  into  the  eyes 
of  St.  Pierre's  wife  when  she  had  stood  facing  her 
husband.  He  heard  again,  with  a  new  understanding, 
the  low  note  of  pathos  in  her  voice  as  in  song  she  had 
called  upon  the  Mother  of  Christ  to  hear  her — and 
help  her.  He  had  not  guessed  at  the  tragedy  of  it 
then.  Now  he  knew,  and  he  thought  of  her  lying 
awake  in  the  gloom  beyond  the  bulkhead,  her  eyes  wet 
with  tears.  And  St.  Pierre  had  gone  back  to  his  raft, 
singing  in  the  night!  Where  before  there  had  been 
sympathy  for  him,  there  rose  a  sincere  revulsion. 
There  had  been  a  reason  for  St.  Pierre's  masterly  pos 
session  of  himself,  and  it  had  not  been,  as  he  had 
thought,  because  of  his  bigness  of  soul.  It  was  be 
cause  he  had  not  cared.  He  was  a  splendid  hypocrite, 
playing  his  game  well  at  the  beginning,  but  betraying 
the  lie  at  the  end.  He  did  not  love  Marie-Anne  as  he, 
Dave  Carrigan,  loved  her.  He  had  spoken  of  her  as 
a  child,  and  he  had  treated  her  as  a  child,  and  was 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  207 

serenely  dispassionate  in  the  face  of  a  situation  which 
would  have  roused  the  spirit  in  most  men.  And  sud 
denly,  recalling  that  thrilling  hour  in  the  white  strip 
of  sand  and  all  that  had  happened  since,  it  flashed 
upon  David  that  St.  Pierre  was  using  his  wife  as  the 
vital  moving  force  in  a  game  of  his  own — that  under 
the  masquerade  of  his  apparent  faith  and  bigness  of 
character  he  was  sacrificing  her  to  achieve  a  certain 
mysterious  something  in  the  scheme  of  his  own  affairs. 

Yet  he  could  not  forget  the  infinite  faith  Marie- 
Anne  Boulain  had  expressed  in  her  husband.  There 
had  been  no  hypocrisy  in  her  waiting  and  her  watching 
for  him,  or  in  her  belief  that  he  would  straighten  out 
the  tangles  of  the  dilemma  in  which  she  had  become 
involved.  Nor  had  there  been  make-believe  in  the 
manner  she  had  left  him  that  day  in  her  eagerness 
to  go  to  St.  Pierre.  Adding  these  facts  as  he  had 
added  the  others,  he  fancied  he  saw  the  truth  staring 
at  him  out  of  the  darkness  of  his  cabin  room.  Marie- 
Anne  loved  her  husband.  And  St.  Pierre  was  merely 
the  possessor,  careless  and  indifferent,  almost  brutally 
dispassionate  in  his  consideration  of  her. 

A  heavy  crash  of  thunder  brought  Carrigan  back 
to  a  realization  of  the  impending  storm.  He  rose  to 
his  feet  in  the  chaotic  gloom,  facing  the  bulkhead  be 
yond  which  he  was  certain  St.  Pierre's  wife  lay  wide 
awake.  He  tried  to  laugh.  It  was  inexcusable,  he 
told  himself,  to  let  his  thoughts  become  involved  in  the 
family  affairs  of  St.  Pierre  and  Marie-Anne.  That 


2o8  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

was  not  his  business.  Marie-Anne,  in  the  final  analysis, 
did  not  appear  to  be  especially  abused,  and  her  mind 
was  not  a  child's  mind.  Probably  she  would  not  thank 
him  for  his  interest  in  the  matter.  She  would  tell  him, 
like  any  other  woman  with  pride,  that  it  was  none 
of  his  business  and  that  he  was  presuming  upon  for 
bidden  ground. 

He  went  to  the  window.  There  was  scarcely  a  breath 
of  air,  and  unfastening  the  screen,  he  thrust  out  his 
head  and  shoulders  into  the  night.  It  was  so  black 
that  he  could  not  see  the  shadow  of  the  water  almost 
within  reach  of  his  hands,  but  through  the  chaos  of 
gloom  that  lay  between  him  and  the  opposite  shore 
he  made  out  a  single  point  of  yellow  light.  He  was 
positive  the  light  was  in  the  cabin  on  the  raft.  And 
St.  Pierre  was  probably  in  that  cabin. 

A  huge  drop  of  rain  splashed  on  his  hand,  and  be 
hind  him  he  heard  sweeping  over  the  forest  tops  the 
quickening  march  of  the  deluge.  There  was  no  crash 
of  thunder  or  flash  of  lightning  when  it  broke.  Straight 
down,  in  an  inundation,  it  came  out  of  a  sky  thick 
enough  to  slit  with  a  knife.  Carrigan  drew  in  his  head 
and  shoulders  and  sniffed  the  sweet  freshness  of  it.  He 
tried  again  to  make  out  the  light  on  the  raft,  but  it 
was  obliterated. 

Mechanically  he  began  taking  off  his  clothes,  and  in 
a  few  moments  he  stood  again  at  the  window,  naked. 
Thunder  and  lightning  had  caught  up  with  the  rain, 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  209 

and  in  the  flashes  of  lire  Carrigan's  ghost-white  face 
stared  in  the  direction  of  the  raft.  In  his  veins  was 
at  work  an  insistent  and  impelling  desire.  Over  there 
was  St.  Pierre,  he  was  undoubtedly  in  the  cabin,  and 
something  might  happen  if  he,  Dave  Carrigan,  took 
advantage  of  storm  and  gloom  to  go  to  the  raft. 

It  was  almost  a  presentiment  that  drew  his  bare 
head  and  shoulders  out  through  the  window,  and  every 
hunting  instinct  in  him  urged  him  to  the  adventure. 
The  stygian  darkness  was  torn  again  by  a  flash  of 
fire.  In  it  he  saw  the  river  and  the  vivid  silhouette 
of  the  distant  shore.  It  would  not  be  a  difficult  swim, 
and  it  would  be  good  training  for  tomorrow. 

Like  a  badger  worming  his  way  out  of  a  hole  a  bit 
too  small  for  him,  Carrigan  drew  himself  through  the 
window.  A  lightning  flash  caught  him  at  the  edge 
of  the  bateau,  and  he  slunk  back  quickly  against  the 
cabin,  with  the  thought  that  other  eyes  might  be  star 
ing  out  into  that  same  darkness.  In  the  pitch  gloom 
that  followed  he  lowered  himself  quietly  into  the  river, 
thrust  himself  under  water,  and  struck  out  for  the 
opposite  shore. 

When  he  came  to  the  surface  again  it  was  in  the 
glare  of  another  lightning  flash.  He  flung  the  water 
from  his  face,  chose  a  point  several  hundred  yards 
above  the  raft,  and  with  quick,  powerful  strokes  set  out 
in  its  direction.  For  ten  minutes  he  quartered  the 
current  without  raising  his  head.  Then  he  paused, 
floating  unresistingly  with  the  slow  sweep  of  the  river, 


2io  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

and  waited  for  another  illumination.  When  it  came,  he 
made  out  the  tented  raft  scarcely  a  hundred  yards  away 
and  a  little  below  him.  In  the  next  darkness  he  found 
the  edge  of  it  and  dragged  himself  up  on  the  mass  of 
timbers. 

The  thunder  had  been  rolling  steadily  westward, 
and  David  crouched  lew,  hoping  for  one  more  flash 
to  illumine  the  raft.  It  came  at  last  from  a  mass  of 
inky  cloud  far  to  the  west,  so  indistinct  that  it  made 
only  dim  shadows  out  of  the  tents  and  shelters,  but 
it  was  sufficient  to  give  him  direction.  Before  its 
faint  glare  died  out,  he  saw  the  deeper  shadow  of  the 
cabin  forward. 

For  many  minutes  he  lay  where  he  had  dragged  him 
self,  without  making  a  movement  in  its  direction.  No 
where  about  him  could  he  see  a  sign  of  light,  nor  could 
he  hear  any  sound  of  life.  St.  Pierre's  people  were 
evidently  deep  in  slumber. 

Carrigan  had  no  very  definite  idea  of  the  next  step 
in  his  adventure.  He  had  swum  from  the  bateau 
largely  under  impulse,  with  no  preconceived  scheme  of 
action,  urged  chiefly  by  the  hope  that  he  would  find 
St.  Pierre  in  the  cabin  and  that  something  might  come 
of  it.  As  for  knocking  at  the  door  and  rousing  the 
chief  of  the  Boulains  from  sleep — he  had  at  the  present 
moment  no  very  good  excuse  for  that.  No  sooner  had 
the  thought  and  its  objection  come  to  him  than  a  broad 
shaft  of  light  shot  with  startling  suddenness  athwart 
the  blackness  of  the  raft,  darkened  in  another  instant 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  211 

by  an  obscuring  shadow.  Swift  as  the  light  itself 
David's  eyes  turned  to  the  source  of  the  unexpected 
illumination.  The  door  of  St.  Pierre's  cabin  was  wide 
open.  The  interior  was  flooded  with  lampglow,  and 
in  the  doorway  stood  St.  Pierre  himself. 

The  chief  of  the  Boulains  seemed  to  be  measuring 
the  weather  possibilities  of  the  night.  His  subdued 
voice  reached  David,  chuckling  with  satisfaction,  as  he 
spoke  to  some  one  who  was  behind  him  in  the  cabin. 

"Pitch  and  brimstone,  but  it's  black!"  he  cried. 
"You  could  carve  it  with  a  knife,  and  stand  it  on  end, 
amante.  But  it's  going  west.  In  a  few  hours  the  stars 
will  be  out." 

He  drew  back  into  the  cabin,  and  the  door  closed. 
David  held  his  breath  in  amazement,  staring  at  the 
blackness  where  a  moment  before  the  light  had  been. 
Who  was  it  St.  Pierre  had  called  sweetheart?  Amante! 
He  could  not  have  been  mistaken.  The  word  had  come 
to  him  clearly,  and  there  was  but  one  guess  to  make. 
Marie-Anne  was  not  on  the  bateau.  She  had  played 
him  for  a  fool,  had  completely  hoodwinked  him  in  her 
plot  with  St.  Pierre.  They  were  cleverer  than  he  had 
supposed,  and  in  darkness  she  had  rejoined  her  husband 
on  the  raft!  But  why  that  senseless  play  of  false 
hood?  What  could  be  their  object  in  wanting  him  to 
believe  she  was  still  aboard  the  bateau  ? 

He  stood  up  on  his  feet  and  mopped  the  warm  rain 
from  his  face,  while  the  gloom  hid  the  grim  smile  that 
came  slowly  to  his  lips.  Close  upon  the  thrill  of  his 


212 

astonishment  he  felt  a  new  stir  in  his  blood  which  added 
impetus  to  his  determination  and  his  action.  He  was 
not  disgusted  with  himself,  nor  was  he  embittered  by 
what  he  had  thought  of  a  moment  ago  as  the  lying 
hypocrisy  of  his  captors.  To  be  beaten  in  his  game 
of  man-hunting  was  sometimes  to  be  expected,  and 
Carrigan  always  gave  proper  credit  to  the  winners.  It 
was  also  "good  medicine"  to  know  that  Marie-Anne, 
instead  of  being  an  unhappy  and  neglected  wife,  had 
blinded  him  with  an  exquisitely  clever  simulation.  Just 
why  she  had  done  it,  and  why  St.  Pierre  had  played 
his  masquerade,  it  was  his  duty  now  to  find  out. 

An  hour  ago  he  would  have  cut  off  a  hand  before 
spying  upon  St.  Pierre's  wife  or  eavesdropping  under 
her  window.  Now  he  felt  no  uneasiness  of  conscience 
as  he  approached  the  cabin,  for  Marie- Anne  herself 
had  destroyed  all  reason  for  any  delicate  discrimination 
on  his  part. 

The  rain  had  almost  stopped,  and  in  one  of  the  near 
tents  he  heard  a  sleepy  voice.  But  he  had  no  fear 
of  chance  discovery.  The  night  would  remain  dark 
for  a  long  time,  and  in  his  bare  feet  he  made  no  sound 
the  sharpest  ears  of  a  dog  ten  feet  away  might  have 
heard.  Close  to  the  cabin  door,  yet  in  such  a  way  that 
the  sudden  opening  of  it  would  not  reveal  him,  he 
paused  and  listened. 

Distinctly  he  heard  St.  Pierre's  voice,  but  not  the 
words.  A  moment  later  came  the  soft,  joyous  laugh 
ter  of  a  woman,  and  for  an  instant  a  hand  seemed  to 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  213 

grip  David's  heart,  filling  it  with  pain.  There  was  no 
unhappiness  in  that  laughter.  It  seemed,  instead,  to 
tremble  in  an  exultation  of  gladness. 

Suddenly  St.  Pierre  came  nearer  the  door,  and  his 
voice  was  more  distinct.  "Chere-cccur,  I  tell  you  it  is 
the  greatest  joke  of  my  life,"  he  heard  him  say.  "We 
are  safe.  If  it  should  come  to  the  worst,  we  can  settle 
the  matter  in  another  way.  I  can  not  but  sing  and 
laugh,  even  in  the  face  of  it  all.  And  she,  in  that 
very  innocence  which  amuses  me  so,  has  no 
suspicion " 

He  turned,  and  vainly  David  keyed  his  ears  to  catch 
the  final  words.  The  voices  in  the  cabin  grew  lower. 
Twice  he  heard  the  soft  laughter  of  the  woman.  St. 
Pierre's  voice,  when  he  spoke,  was  unintelligible. 

The  thought  that  his  random  adventure  was  bringing 
him  to  an  important  discovery  possessed  Carrigan.  St. 
Pierre,  he  believed,  had  been  on  the  very  edge  of  dis 
closing  something  which  he  would  have  given  a  great 
deal  to  know.  Surely  in  this  cabin  there  must  be  a 
window,  and  the  window  would  be  open 

Quietly  he  felt  his  way  through  the  darkness  to 
the  shore  side  of  the  cabin.  A  narrow  bar  of  light  at 
least  partly  confirmed  his  judgment.  There  was  a 
window.  But  it  was  almost  entirely  curtained,  and 
it  was  closed.  Had  the  curtain  been  drawn  two  inches 
lower,  the  thin  stream  of  light  would  have  been  shut 
entirely  out  from  the  night. 

Under   this    window    David   crouched    for   several 


214  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

minutes,  hoping  that  in  the  calm  which  was  succeed 
ing  the  storm  it  might  be  opened.  The  voices  were 
still  more  indistinct  inside.  He  scarcely  heard  St. 
Pierre,  but  twice  again  he  heard  the  low  and  musical 
laughter  of  the  woman.  She  had  laughed  differently 
with  him — and  the  grim  smile  settled  on  his  lips  as  he 
looked  up  at  the  narrow  slit  of  light  over  his  head. 
He  had  an  overwhelming  desire  to  look  in.  After  all, 
it  was  a  matter  of  professional  business — and  his  duty. 

He  was  glad  the  curtain  was  drawn  so  low.  From 
experiments  of  his  own  he  knew  there  was  small  chance 
of  those  inside  seeing  him  through  the  two-inch  slit, 
and  he  raised  himself  boldly  until  his  eyes  were  on  a 
level  with  the  aperture. 

Directly  in  the  line  of  his  vision  was  St.  Pierre's 
wife.  She  was  seated,  and  her  back  was  toward  him, 
so  he  could  not  see  her  face.  She  was  partly  disrobed, 
and  her  hair  was  streaming  loose  about  her.  Once,  he 
remembered,  she  had  spoken  of  fiery  lights  that  came 
into  her  hair  under  certain  illumination.  He  had  seen 
them  in  the  sun,  but  never  as  they  revealed  themselves 
now  in  that  cabin  lamp  glow.  He  scarcely  looked  at 
St.  Pierre,  who  was  on  his  feet,  looking  down  upon 
her — not  until  St.  Pierre  reached  out  and  crumpled 
the  smothering  mass  of  glowing  tresses  in  his  big 
hands,  and  laughed.  It  was  a  laugh  filled  with  the 
unutterable  joy  of  possession.  The  woman  rose  to  her 
feet.  Up  through  her  hair  went  her  two  white,  bare 
arms,  encircling  St.  Pierre's  neck.  The  giant  drew 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  215 

her  close.  Her  slim  form  seemed  to  melt  in  his,  and 
their  lips  met. 

And  then  the  woman  threw  back  her  head,  laughing, 
so  that  her  glory  of  hair  fell  straight  down,  and  she 
was  out  of  reach  of  St.  Pierre's  lips.  They  turned. 
Her  face  fronted  the  window,  and  out  in  the  night 
Carrigan  stifled  a  cry  that  almost  broke  from  his  lips. 
For  a  flash  he  was  looking  straight  into  her  eyes.  Her 
parted  lips  seemed  smiling  at  him ;  her  white  throat  and 
bosom  were  bared  to  him.  He  dropped  down,  his  heart 
choking  him  as  he  stumbled  through  the  darkness  to 
the  edge  of  the  raft.  There,  with  the  lap  of  the  water 
at  his  feet,  he  paused.  It  was  hard  for  him  to  get 
breath.  He  stared  through  the  gloom  in  the  direction 
of  the  bateau.  Marie-Anne  Boulain,  the  woman  he 
loved,  was  there!  In  her  little  cabin,  alone,  on  the 
bateau,  was  St.  Pierre's  wife,  her  heart  crushed. 

And  in  this  cabin  on  the  raft,  forgetful  of  her  degra 
dation  and  her  grief,  was  the  vilest  wretch  he  had  ever 
known — St.  Pierre  Boulain.  And  with  him,  giving 
herself  into  his  arms,  caressing  him  with  her  lips  and 
hair,  was  the  sister  of  the  man  he  had  helped  to  hang — 
Carmin  Fanchet! 


XX 


shock  of  the  amazing  discovery  which  Carrigan 
-*-  had  made  was  as  complete  as  it  was  unexpected. 
His  eyes  had  looked  upon  the  last  thing  in  the  world 
he  might  have  guessed  at  or  anticipated  when  they  be 
held  through  the  window  of  St.  Pierre's  cabin  the 
beautiful  face  and  partly  disrobed  figure  of  Carmin 
Fanchet.  The  first  effect  of  that  shock  had  been  to 
drive  him  away.  His  action  had  been  involuntary, 
almost  without  the  benefit  of  reason,  as  if  Carmin  had 
been  Marie-Anne  herself  receiving  the  caresses  which 
were  rightfully  hers,  and  upon  which  it  was  both  insult 
and  dishonor  for  him  to  spy.  He  realized  now  that 
he  had  made  a  mistake  in  leaving  the  window  too 
quickly. 

But  he  did  not  move  back  through  the  gloom,  for 
there  was  something  too  revolting  in  what  he  had  seen, 
and  with  the  revulsion  of  it  a  swift  understanding 
of  the  truth  which  made  his  hands  clench  as  he  sat 
down  on  the  edge  of  the  raft  with  his  feet  and  legs 
submerged  in  the  slow-moving  current  of  the  river. 
The  thing  was  not  uncommon.  It  was  the  same  mon 
strous  story,  as  old  as  the  river  itself,  but  in  this  in 
stance  it  filled  him  with  a  sickening  sort  of  horror 

216 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  217 

which  gripped  him  at  first  even  more  than  the  strange 
ness  of  the  fact  that  Carmin  Fanchet  was  the  other 
woman.  His  vision  and  his  soul  were  reaching  out 
to  the  bateau  lying  in  darkness  on  the  far  side  of  the 
river,  where  St.  Pierre's  wife  was  alone  in  her  un- 
happiness.  His  first  impulse  was  to  fling  himself  in 
the  river  and  race  to  her — his  second,  to  go  back  to 
St.  Pierre,  even  in  his  nakedness,  and  call  him  forth 
to  a  reckoning.  In  his  profession  of  man-hunting 
he  had  never  had  the  misfortune  to  kill,  but  he  could 
kill  St.  Pierre — now.  His  fingers  dug  into  the  slip 
pery  wood  of  the  log  under  him,  his  blood  ran  hot, 
and  in  his  eyes  blazed  the  fury  of  an  animal  as  he 
stared  into  the  wall  of  gloom  between  him  and  Marie- 
Anne  Boulain. 

How  much  did  she  know  ?  That  was  the  first  ques 
tion  which  pounded  in  his  brain.  He  suddenly  re 
called  his  reference  to  the  fight,  his  apology  to  Marie- 
Anne  that  it  should  happen  so  near  to  her  presence, 
and  he  saw  again  the  queer  little  twist  of  her  mouth 
as  she  let  slip  the  hint  that  she  was  not  the  only  one 
of  her  sex  who  would  know  of  tomorrow's  fight.  He 
had  not  noticed  the  significance  of  it  then.  But  now  it 
struck  home.  Marie- Anne  was  surely  aware  of  Carmin 
Fanchet' s  presence  on  the  raft. 

But  did  she  know  more  than  that?  Did  she  know 
the  truth,  or  was  her  heart  filled  only  with  suspicion 
and  fear,  aggravated  by  St.  Pierre's  neglect  and  his 
too-apparent  haste  to  return  to  the  raft  that  night? 


218  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

Again  David's  mind  flashed  back,  recalling  her  de 
fense  of  Carmin  Fanchet  when  he  had  first  told  her 
his  story  of  the  woman  whose  brother  he  had  brought 
to  the  hangman's  justice.  There  could  be  but  one 
conclusion.  Marie-Anne  knew  Carmin  Fanchet,  and 
she  also  knew  she  was  on  the  raft  with  St.  Pierre. 

As  cooler  judgment  returned  to  him,  Carrigan  re 
fused  to  concede  more  than  that.  For  any  one  of  a 
dozen  reasons  Carmin  Fanchet  might  be  on  the  raft 
going  down  the  river,  and  it  was  also  quite  within 
reason  that  Marie- Anne  might  have  some  apprehension 
of  a  woman  as  beautiful  as  Carmin,  and  possibly  in 
tuition  had  begun  to  impinge  upon  her  a  disturbing 
fear  of  a  something  that  might  happen.  But  until 
tonight  he  was  confident  she  had  fought  against  this 
suspicion,  and  had  overridden  it,  even  though  she  knew 
a  woman  more  beautiful  than  herself  was  slowly  drift 
ing  down  the  stream  with  her  husband.  She  had  be 
trayed  no  anxiety  to  him  in  the  days  that  had  passed ; 
she  had  waited  eagerly  for  St.  Pierre;  like  a  bird  she 
had  gone  to  him  when  at  last  he  came,  and  he  had 
seen  her  crushed  close  in  St.  Pierre's  arms  in  their 
meeting.  It  was  this  night,  with  its  gloom  and  its 
storm,  that  had  made  the  shadowings  of  her  unrest  a 
torturing  reality.  For  St.  Pierre  had  brought  her 
back  to  the  bateau  and  had  played  a  pitiably  weak  part 
in  concealing  his  desire  to  return  to  the  raft. 

So  he  told  himself  Marie- Anne  did  not  know  the 
truth,  not  as  he  had  seen  it  through  the  window  of 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  219 

St.  Pierre's  cabin.  She  had  been  hurt,  for  he  had  seen 
the  sting  of  it,  and  in  that  same  instant  he  had  seen  her 
soul  rise  up  and  triumph.  He  saw  again  the  sudden 
fire  that  came  into  her  eyes  when  St.  Pierre  urged  the 
necessity  of  his  haste,  he  saw  her  slim  body  grow  tense, 
her  red  lips  curve  in  a  flash  of  pride  and  disdain.  And 
as  Carrigan  thought  of  her  in  that  way  his  muscles 
grew  tighter,  and  he  cursed  St.  Pierre.  Marie-Anne 
might  be  hurt,  she  might  guess  that  her  husband's 
eyes  and  thoughts  were  too  frequently  upon  another's 
face — but  in  the  glory  of  her  womanhood  it  was  im 
possible  for  her  to  conceive  of  a  crime  such  as  he  had 
witnessed  through  the  cabin  window.  Of  that  he 
was  sure. 

And  then,  suddenly,  like  a  blinding  sheet  of  light 
ning  out  of  a  dark  sky,  came  back  to  him  all  that 
St.  Pierre  had  said  about  Marie-Anne.  He  had  pitied 
St.  Pierre  then ;  he  had  pitied  this  great  cool-eyed  giant 
of  a  man  who  was  fighting  gloriously,  he  had  thought, 
in  the  face  of  a  situation  that  would  have  excited  most 
men.  Frankly  St.  Pierre  had  told  him  Marie-Anne 
cared  more  for  him  than  she  should.  With  equal  frank 
ness  he  had  revealed  his  wife's  confessions  to  him,  that 
she  knew  of  his  love  for  her,  of  his  kiss  upon  her  hair. 

In  the  blackness  Carrigan's  face  burned  hot.  If 
he  had  in  him  the  desire  to  kill  St.  Pierre  now,  might 
not  St.  Pierre  have  had  an  equally  just  desire  to  kill 
him?  For  he  had  known,  even  as  he  kissed  her  hair, 
and  as  his  arms  held  her  close  to  his  breast  in  crossing 


220  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

the  creek,  that  she  was  the  wife  of  St.  Pierre.  And 
Marie- Anne 

His  muscles  relaxed.  Slowly  he  lowered  himself 
into  the  cool  wash  of  the  river,  and  struck  out  toward 
the  bateau.  He  did  not  breast  the  current  with  the 
same  fierce  determination  with  which  he  had  crossed 
through  the  storm  to  the  raft,  but  drifted  with  it  and 
reached  the  opposite  shore  a  quarter  of  a  mile  below 
the  bateau.  Here  he  waited  for  a  time,  while  the 
thickness  of  the  clouds  broke,  and  a  gray  light  came 
through  them,  revealing  dimly  the  narrow  path  of 
pebbly  wash  along  the  shore.  Silently,  a  stark  naked 
shadow  in  the  night,  he  came  back  to  the  bateau  and 
crawled  through  his  window. 

He  lighted  a  lamp,  and  turned  it  very  low,  and  in  the 
dim  glow  of  it  rubbed  his  muscles  until  they  burned. 
He  was  fit  for  tomorrow,  and  the  knowledge  of  that 
fitness  filled  him  with  a  savage  elation.  A  good- 
humored  love  of  sport  had  induced  him  to  fling  his 
first  half -bantering  challenge  into  the  face  of  Con- 
combre  Bateese,  but  that  sentiment  was  gone.  The 
approaching  fight  was  no  longer  an  incident,  a  foolish 
error  into  which  he  had  unwittingly  plunged  himself. 
In  this  hour  it  was  the  biggest  physical  thing  that  had 
ever  loomed  up  in  his  life,  and  he  yearned  for  the 
dawn  with  the  eagerness  of  a  beast  that  waits  for  the 
kill  which  comes  with  the  break  of  day.  But  it  was 
not  the  half-breed's  face  he  saw  under  the  hammering 
of  his  blows.  He  could  not  hate  the  half-breed.  He 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  221 

could  not  even  dislike  him  now.  He  forced  himself 
to  bed,  and  later  he  slept.  In  the  dream  that  came  to 
him  it  was  not  Bateese  who  faced  him  in  battle,  but 
St.  Pierre  Boulain. 

He  awoke  with  that  dream  a  thing  of  fire  in  his 
brain.  The  sun  was  not  yet  up,  but  the  flush  of  it 
was  painting  the  east,  and  he  dressed  quietly  and  care 
fully,  listening  for  some  sound  of  awakening  beyond 
the  bulkhead.  If  Marie- Anne  was  awake,  she  was 
very  still.  There  was  noise  ashore.  Across  the  river 
he  could  hear  the  singing  of  men,  and  through  his 
window  saw  the  white  smoke  of  early  fires  rising  above 
the  tree-tops.  It  was  the  Indian  who  unlocked  the 
door  and  brought  in  his  breakfast,  and  it  was  the 
Indian  who  returned  for  the  dishes  half  an  hour  later. 

After  that  Carrigan  waited,  tense  with  the  desire 
for  action  to  begin.  He  sensed  no  premonition  of 
evil  about  to  befall  him.  Every  nerve  and  sinew  in 
his  body  was  alive  for  the  combat.  He  thrilled  with 
an  overwhelming  confidence,  a  conviction  of  his  ability 
to  win,  an  almost  dangerous,  self -conviction  of  ap 
proaching  triumph  in  spite  of  the  odds  in  weight  and 
brute  strength  which  were  pitted  against  him.  A 
dozen  times  he  listened  at  the  bulkhead  between  him 
and  Marie-Anne,  and  still  he  heard  no  movement  on 
the  other  side. 

It  was  eight  o'clock  when  one  of  the  bateau  men 
appeared  at  the  door  and  asked  if  he  was  ready. 
Quickly  David  joined  him.  He  forgot  his  taunts  to 


222  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

Concombre  Bateese,  forgot  the  softly  padded  gloves 
in  his  pack  with  which  he  had  promised  to  pommel 
the  half-breed  into  oblivion.  He  was  thinking  only 
of  naked  fists. 

Into  a  canoe  he  followed  the  bateau  man,  who  turned 
his  craft  swiftly  in  the  direction  of  the  opposite  shore. 
And  as  they  went,  David  was  sure  he  caught  the  slight 
movement  of  a  curtain  at  the  little  window  of  Marie- 
Anne's  forward  cabin.  He  smiled  back  and  raised  his 
hand,  and  at  that  the  curtain  was  drawn  back  entirely, 
and  he  knew  that  St.  Pierre's  wife  was  watching  him 
as  he  went  to  the  fight. 

The  raft  was  deserted,  but  a  little  below  it,  on  a  wide 
strip  of  beach  made  hard  and  smooth  by  flood  water, 
had  gathered  a  crowd  of  men.  It  seemed  odd  to  David 
they  should  remain  so  quiet,  when  he  knew  the  natural 
instinct  of  the  riverman  was  to  voice  his  emotion  at 
the  top  of  his  lungs.  He  spoke  of  this  to  the  bateau 
man,  who  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  grinned. 

"Eet  ees  ze  command  of  St.  Pierre,"  he  explained. 
"St.  Pierre  say  no  man  make  beeg  noise  at — what  you 
call  heem — funeral  ?  An'  theese  goin'  to  be  wan  gran' 
fun-e-ra/,  m'sieu!" 

"I  see,"  David  nodded.  He  did  not  grin  back  at 
the  other's  humor. 

He  was  looking  at  the  crowd.  A  giant  figure  had 
appeared  out  of  the  center  of  it  and  was  coming  slowly 
down  to  the  river.  It  was  St.  Pierre.  Scarcely  had 
the  prow  of  the  canoe  touched  shore  when  David  leaped 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  223 

out  and  hurried  to  meet  him.  Behind  St.  Pierre  came 
Bateese,  the  half-breed.  He  was  stripped  to  the  waist 
and  naked  from  the  knees  down.  His  gorilla-like 
arms  hung  huge  and  loose  at  his  sides,  and  the  muscles 
of  his  hulking  body  stood  out  like  carven  mahogany 
in  the  glisten  of  the  morning  sun.  He  was  like  a 
grizzly,  a  human  beast  of  monstrous  power,  some 
thing  to  look  at,  to  back  away  from,  to  fear. 

Yet,  David  scarcely  noticed  him.  He  met  St.  Pierre, 
faced  him,  and  stopped — and  he  had  gone  swiftly 
to  this  meeting,  so  that  the  chief  of  the  Boulains  was 
within  earshot  of  all  his  men. 

St.  Pierre  was  smiling.  He  held  out  his  hand  as 
he  had  held  it  out  once  before  in  the  bateau  cabin, 
and  his  big  voice  boomed  out  a  greeting. 

Carrigan  did  not  answer,  nor  did  he  look  at  the 
extended  hand.  For  an  instant  the  eyes  of  the  two 
men  met,  and  then,  swift  as  lightning,  Carrigan's  arm 
shot  out,  and  with  the  flat  of  his  hand  he  struck  St. 
Pierre  a  terrific  blow  squarely  on  the  cheek.  The  sound 
of  the  blow  was  like  the  smash  of  a  paddle  on  smooth 
water.  Not  a  riverman  but  heard  it,  and  as  St.  Pierre 
staggered  back,  flung  almost  from  his  feet  by  its  force, 
a  subdued  cry  of  amazement  broke  from  the  waiting 
men.  Concombre  Bateese  stood  like  one  stupefied. 
And  then,  in  another  flash,  St.  Pierre  had  caught  him 
self  and  whirled  like  a  wild  beast.  Every  muscle  in 
his  body  was  drawn  for  a  gigantic,  overwhelming  leap ; 
his  eyes  blazed;  the  fury  of  a  beast  was  in  his  face. 


224  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

Before  all  his  people  he  had  suffered  the  deadliest  insult 
that  could  be  offered  a  man  of  the  Three  River  Country 
• — a  blow  struck  with  the  flat  of  another's  hand.  Any 
thing  else  one  might  forgive,  but  not  that.  Such  a 
blow,  if  not  avenged,  was  a  brand  that  passed  down 
into  the  second  and  third  generations,  and  even  chil 
dren  would  call  out  "Yellow-Back — Yellow-Back,"  to 
the  one  who  was  coward  enough  to  receive  it  without 
resentment.  A  rumbling  growl  rose  in  the  throat  of 
Concombre  Bateese  in  that  moment  when  it  seemed  as 
though  St.  Pierre  Boulain  was  about  to  kill  the  man 
who  had  struck  him.  He  saw  the  promise  of  his  own 
fight  gone  in  a  flash.  For  no  man  in  all  the  northland 
could  now  fight  David  Carrigan  ahead  of  St.  Pierre. 

David  waited,  prepared  to  meet  the  rush  of  a  mad 
man.  And  then,  for  a  second  time,  he  saw  a  mighty 
struggle  in  the  soul  of  St.  Pierre.  The  giant  held  him 
self  back.  The  fury  died  out  of  his  face,  but  his  great 
hands  remained  clenched  as  he  said,  for  David  alone, 

"That  was  a  playful  blow,  m'sieu?  It  was — a 
joke?" 

"It  was  for  you,  St.  Pierre,"  replied  Carrigan.  "You 
are  a  coward — and  a  skunk.  I  swam  to  the  raft  last 
night,  looked  through  your  window,  and  saw  what 
happened  there.  You  are  not  fit  for  a  decent  man  to 
fight,  yet  I  will  fight  you,  if  you  are  not  too  great  a 
coward — and  dare  to  let  our  wagers  stand  as  they  were 
made." 

St.  Pierre's  eyes  widened,  and  for  a  breath  or  two 
he  stared  at  Carrigan,  as  if  looking  into  him  and  not 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  225 

at  him.  His  big  hands  relaxed,  and  slowly  the  panther- 
like  readiness  went  out  of  his  body.  Those  who 
looked  beheld  the  transformation  in  amazement,  for 
of  all  who  waited  only  St.  Pierre  and  the  half-breed 
had  heard  Carrigan's  words,  though  they  had  seen 
and  heard  the  blow  of  insult. 

"You  swam  to  the  raft,"  repeated  St.  Pierre  in  a 
low  voice,  as  if  doubting  what  he  had  heard.  "You 
looked  through  the  window — and  sawr " 

David  nodded.  He  could  not  cover  the  sneering 
poison  in  his  voice,  his  contempt  for  the  man  who 
stood  before  him. 

"Yes,  I  looked  through  the  window.  And  I  saw 
you,  and  the  lowest  woman  on  the  Three  Rivers — the 
sister  of  a  man  I  helped  to  hang.  I " 

"Stop!" 

St.  Pierre's  voice  broke  out  of  him  like  the  sudden 
crash  of  thunder.  He  came  a  step  nearer,  his  face 
livid,  his  eyes  shooting  flame.  With  a  mighty  effort 
he  controlled  himself  again.  And  then,  as  if  he  saw 
something  which  David  could  not  see,  he  tried  to  smile, 
and  in  that  same  instant  David  caught  a  grin  cutting  a 
great  slash  across  the  face  of  Concombre  Bateese.  The 
change  that  came  over  St.  Pierre  now  was  swift  as 
sunlight  coming  out  from  shadowing  cloud.  A  rumble 
grew  in  his  great  chest.  It  broke  in  a  low  note  of 
laughter  from  his  lips,  and  he  faced  the  bateau  across 
the  river. 

"M'sieu,  you  are  sorry  for  fyer.  Is  that  it?  You 
would  fight " 


226  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

"For  the  cleanest,  finest  little  girl  who  ever  lived — 
your  wife!" 

"It  is  funny,"  said  St.  Pierre,  as  if  speaking  to  him 
self,  and  still  looking  at  the  bateau.  "Yes,  it  is  very 
funny,  ma  belle  Marie- Anne!  He  has  told  you  he 
loves  you,  and  he  has  kissed  your  hair  and  held  you 
in  his  arms — yet  he  wants  to  fight  me  because  he  thinks 
I  am  steeped  in  sin,  and  to  make  me  fight  in  place  of 
Bateese  he  has  called  my  Carmin  a  low  woman!  So 
what  else  can  I  do?  I  must  fight.  I  must  whip  him 
until  he  can  not  walk.  And  then  I  will  send  him  back 
for  you  to  nurse,  cherie,  and  for  that  blessing  I  think 
he  will  willingly  take  my  punishment!  Is  it  not  so, 
m'sieu?" 

He  was  smiling  and  no  longer  excited  when  he  turned 
to  David. 

"M'sieu,  I  will  fight  you.  And  the  wagers  shall 
stand.  And  in  this  hour  let  us  be  honest,  like  men, 
and  make  confession.  You  love  ma  belle  Jeanne — 
Marie-Anne?  Is  it  not  so ?  And  I — I  love  my  Carmin, 
whose  brother  you  hanged,  as  I  love  no  other  woman 
in  the  world.  Now,  if  you  will  have  it  so,  let  us  fight !" 

He  began  stripping  off  his  shirt,  and  with  a  bellow 
in  his  throat  Concombre  Bateese  slouched  away  like 
a  beaten  gorilla  to  explain  to  St.  Pierre's  people  the 
change  in  the  plan  of  battle.  And  as  that  news  spread 
like  fire  in  the  fir-tops,  there  came  but  a  single  cry  in 
response — shrill  and  terrible — and  that  was  from  the 
throat  of  Andre,  the  Broken  Man. 


XXI 

A  S  Carrigan  stripped  off  his  shirt,  he  knew  that  at 
•^  ^  least  in  one  way  he  had  met  more  than  his  match 
in  St.  Pierre  Boulain.  In  the  splendid  service  of 
which  he  was  a  part  he  had  known  many  men  of  iron 
and  steel,  men  whose  nerve  and  coolness  not  even  death 
could  very  greatly  disturb.  Yet  St.  Pierre,  he  con 
ceded,  was  their  master — and  his  own.  For  a  flash  he 
had  transformed  the  chief  of  the  Boulain s  into  a 
volcano  which  had  threatened  to  break  in  savage  fury, 
yet  neither  the  crash  nor  destruction  had  come.  And 
now  St.  Pierre  was  smiling  again,  as  Carrigan  faced 
him,  stripped  to  the  waist.  He  betrayed  no  sign  of 
the  tempest  of  passion  that  had  swept  him  a  few  min 
utes  before.  His  cool,  steely  eyes  had  in  them  a  look 
that  was  positively  friendly,  as  Concombre  Bateese 
marked  in  the  hard  sand  the  line  of  the  circle  within 
which  no  man  might  come.  And  as  he  did  this  and 
St.  Pierre's  people  crowded  close  about  it,  St.  Pierre 
himself  spoke  in  a  low  voice  to  David. 

"M'sieu,  it  seems  a  shame  that  we  should  fight.  I 
like  you.  I  have  always  loved  a  man  who  would  fight 
to  protect  a  woman,  and  I  shall  be  careful  not  to  hurt 
you  more  than  is  necessary  to  make  you  see  reason — 

227 


228  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

and  to  win  the  wagers.  So  you  need  not  be  afraid  of 
my  killing  you,  as  Bateese  might  have  done.  And  I 
promise  not  to  destroy  your  beauty,  for  the  sake  of — 
the  lady  in  the  bateau.  My  Carmin,  if  she  knew  you 
spied  through  her  window  last  night,  would  say  kill  you 
with  as  little  loss  of  time  as  possible,  for  as  regards 
you  her  sweet  disposition  was  spoiled  when  you  hung 
her  brother,  m'sieu.  Yet  to  me  she  is  an  angel !" 

Contempt  for  the  man  who  spoke  of  his  wife  and 
the  infamous  Carmin  Fanchet  in  the  same  breath  drew 
a  sneer  to  Carrigan's  lips.  He  nodded  toward  the 
waiting  circle  of  men. 

"They  are  ready  for  the  show,  St.  Pierre.  You 
talk  big.  Now  let  us  see  if  you  can  fight." 

For  another  moment  St.  Pierre  hesitated.     "I  am 


so  sorry,  m  sieu 

"Are  you  ready,  St.  Pierre?" 

"It  is  not  fair,  and  she  will  never  forgive  me.  You 
are  no  match  for  me.  I  am  half  again  as  heavy." 

"And  as  big  a  coward  as  you  are  a  scoundrel,  St. 
Pierre." 

"It  is  like  a  man  fighting  a  boy." 

"Yet  it  is  less  dishonorable  than  betraying  the 
woman  who  is  your  wife  for  another  who  should  have 
been  hanged  along  with  her  brother,  St.  Pierre." 

Boulain's  face  darkened.  He  drew  back  half  a  dozen 
steps  and  cried  out  a  word  to  Bateese.  Instantly  the 
circle  of  waiting  men  grew  tense  as  the  half-breed 
jerked  the  big  handkerchief  from  his  head  and  held 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  229 

it  out  at  arm's  length.  Yet,  with  that  eagerness  for 
the  fight  there  was  something  else  which  Carrigan  was 
swift  to  sense.  The  attitude  of  the  watchers  was  not 
one  of  uncertainty  or  of  very  great  expectation,  in 
spite  of  the  staring  faces  and  the  muscular  tightening 
of  the  line.  He  knew  what  was  passing  in  their  minds 
and  in  the  low  whispers  from  lip  to  lip.  They  were 
pitying  him.  Now  that  he  stood  stripped,  with  only 
a  few  paces  between  him  and  the  giant  figure  of  St. 
Pierre,  the  unfairness  of  the  fight  struck  home  even  to 
Concombre  Bateese.  Only  Carrigan  himself  knew  how 
like  tempered  steel  the  sinews  of  his  body  were  built. 
But  to  the  eye,  in  size  alone,  he  stood  like  a  boy  before 
St.  Pierre.  And  St.  Pierre's  people,  their  voices  stilled 
by  the  deadly  inequality  of  it,  were  waiting  for  a 
slaughter  and  not  a  fight. 

A  smile  came  to  Carrigan's  lips  as  he  saw  Bateese 
hesitating  to  drop  the  handkerchief,  and  with  the  swift 
ness  of  the  trained  fighter  he  made  his  first  plan  for  the 
battle  before  the  cloth  fell  from  the  half-breed's  fingers. 
As  the  handkerchief  fluttered  to  the  ground,  he  faced 
St.  Pierre,  the  smile  gone. 

"Never  smile  when  you  fight,"  the  greatest  of  all 
masters  of  the  ring  had  told  him.  "Never  show  anger.. 
Don't  betray  any  emotion  at  all  if  you  can  help  it." 

Carrigan  wondered  what  the  old  ring-master  would 
say  could  he  see  him  now,  backing  away  slowly  from 
St.  Pierre  as  the  giant  advanced  upon  him,  for  he  knew 
his  face  was  betraying  to  St.  Pierre  and  his  people  the 


230  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

deadliest  of  all  sins — anxiety  and  indecision.  Very 
closely,  yet  with  eyes  that  seemed  to  shift  uneasily, 
he  watched  the  effect  of  his  trick  on  Boulain.  Twice 
the  huge  riverman  followed  him  about  the  ring  of  sand, 
and  the  steely  glitter  in  his  eyes  changed  to  laughter, 
and  the  tense  faces  of  the  men  about  them  relaxed.  A 
subdued  ripple  of  merriment  rose  where  there  had  been 
silence.  A  third  time  David  maneuvered  his  retreat, 
and  his  eyes  shot  furtively  to  Concombre  Bateese  and 
the  men  at  his  back.  They  were  grinning.  The  half- 
breed's  mouth  wras  wide  open,  and  his  grotesque  body 
hung  limp  and  astonished.  This  was  not  a  fight!  It 
was  a  comedy — like  a  rooster  following  a  sparrow 
around  a  barnyard!  And  then  a  still  funnier  thing 
happened,  for  David  began  to  trot  in  a  circle  around 
St.  Pierre,  dodging  and  feinting,  and  keeping  always 
at  a  safe  distance.  A  howl  of  laughter  came  from  Ba 
teese  and  broke  in  a  roar  from  the  men.  St.  Pierre 
stopped  in  his  tracks,  a  grin  on  his  face,  his  big  arms 
and  shoulders  limp  and  unprepared  as  Carrigan  dodged 

in  close  and  out  again.    And  then 

A  howl  broke  in  the  middle  of  the  half-breed's  throat. 
Where  there  had  been  laughter,  there  came  a  sudden 
shutting  off  of  sound,  a  great  gasp,  as  if  made  by 
choking  men.  Swifter  than  anything  they  had  ever  seen 
in  human  action  Carrigan  had  leaped  in.  They  saw 
him  strike.  They  heard  the  blow.  They  saw  St. 
Pierre's  great  head  rock  back,  as  if  struck  from  his 
shoulders  by  a  club,  and  they  saw  and  heard  another 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  231 

blow,  and  a  third — like  so  many  flashes  of  lightning — 
and  St.  Pierre  went  down  as  if  shot.  The  man  they  had 
laughed  at  was  no  longer  like  a  hopping  sparrow.  He 
was  waiting,  bent  a  little  forward,  every  muscle  in  his 
body  ready  for  action.  They  watched  for  him  to 
leap  upon  his  fallen  enemy,  kicking  and  gouging  and 
choking  in  the  riverman  way.  But  David  waited,  and 
St.  Pierre  staggered  to  his  feet.  His  mouth  was  bleed 
ing  and  choked  with  sand,  and  a  great  lump  was  be 
ginning  to  swell  over  his  eye.  A  deadly  fire  blazed 
in  his  face,  as  he  rushed  like  a  mad  bull  at  the  insig 
nificant  opponent  who  had  tricked  and  humiliated  him. 
This  time  Carrigan  did  not  retreat,  but  held  his  ground, 
and  a  yell  of  joy  went  up  from  Bateese  as  the  mighty 
bulk  of  the  giant  descended  upon  his  victim.  It  was  an 
avalanche  of  brute-force,  crushing  in  its  destructive- 
ness,  and  Carrigan  seemed  to  reach  for  it  as  it  came 
upon  him.  Then  his  head  went  down,  swifter  than 
a  diving  grebe,  and  as  St.  Pierre's  arm  swung  like  an 
oaken  beam  over  his  shoulder,  his  own  shot  in  straight 
for  the  pit  of  the  other's  stomach.  It  was  a  bull's-eye 
blow  with  the  force  of  a  pile-driver  behind  it,  and  the 
groan  that  forced  its  way  out  of  St.  Pierre's  vitals 
was  heard  by  every  ear  in  the  cordon  of  watchers.  His 
weight  stopped,  his  arms  opened,  and  through  that 
opening  Carrigan's  fist  went  a  second  time  to  the 
other's  jaw,  and  a  second  time  the  great  St.  Pierre 
Boulain  sprawled  out  upon  the  sand.  And  there  he 
lay,  and  made  no  effort  to  rise. 


232  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

Concombre  Bateese,  with  his  great  mouth  agape, 
stood  for  an  instant  as  if  the  blow  had  stunned  hini 
in  place  of  his  master.  Then,  suddenly  he  came  to  life, 
and  leaped  to  David's  side. 

"Diable!  Tonnerre!  You  have  not  fight  Concombre 
Bateese  yet!"  he  howled.  "Non,  you  have  cheat  me, 
you  have  lie,  you  have  run  lak  cat  from  Concombre 
Bateese,  ze  stronges'  man  on  all  T'ree  River!  You 
are  wan'  gran'  coward,  wan  poltroon,  an'  you  'fraid 
to  fight  me,  who  ees  greates'  fightin'  man  in  all  dees 
countree!  Sapristi!  Why  you  no  hit  Concombre 
Bateese,  m'sieu?  Why  you  no  hit  ze  greates'  fightin' 
man  w'at  ees " 

David  did  not  hear  the  rest.  The  opportunity  was 
too  tempting.  He  swung,  and  with  a  huge  grunt  the 
gorilla-like  body  of  Concombre  Bateese  rolled  over  that 
of  the  chief  of  the  Boulains.  This  time  Carrigan  did 
not  wait,  but  followed  up  so  closely  that  the  half-breed 
had  scarcely  gathered  the  crook  out  of  his  knees  when 
another  blow  on  the  jaw  sent  him  into  the  sand  again. 
Three  times  he  tried  the  experiment  of  regaining  his 
feet,  and  three  times  he  was  knocked  down.  After 
the  last  blow  he  raised  himself  groggily  to  a  sitting 
posture,  and  there  he  remained,  blinking  like  a  stunned 
pig,  with  his  big  hands  clutching  in  the  sand.  He  stared 
up  unseeingly  at  Carrigan,  who  waited  over  him,  and 
then  stupidly  at  the  transfixed  cordon  of  men,  whose 
eyes  were  bulging  and  who  were  holding  their  breath 
in  the  astonishment  of  this  miracle  which  had  de- 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  233 

scended  upon  them.  They  heard  Bateese  muttering 
something  incoherent  as  his  head  wobbled,  and  St. 
Pierre  himself  seemed  to  hear  it,  for  he  stirred  and 
raised  himself  slowly,  until  he  also  was  sitting  in  the 
sand,  staring  at  Bateese. 

Carrigan  picked  up  his  shirt,  and  the  riverman 
who  had  brought  him  from  the  bateau  returned  with 
him  to  the  canoe.  There  was  no  demonstration  be 
hind  them.  To  David  himself  the  whole  thing  had 
been  an  amazing  surprise,  and  he  was  not  at  all  re 
luctant  to  leave  as  quickly  as  his  dignity  would  permit, 
before  some  other  of  St.  Pierre's  people  offered  to  put 
a  further  test  upon  his  prowess.  He  wanted  to  laugh. 
He  wanted  to  thank  God  at  the  top  of  his  voice  for  the 
absurd  run  of  luck  that  had  made  his  triumph  not 
only  easy  but  utterly  complete.  He  had  expected  to 
win,  but  he  had  also  expected  a  terrific  fight  before 
the  last  blow  was  struck.  And  there  had  been  no  fight ! 
He  was  returning  to  the  bateau  without  a  scratch, 
his  hair  scarcely  ruffled,  and  he  had  defeated  not  only 
St.  Pierre,  but  the  giant  half-breed  as  well!  It  was 
inconceivable — and  yet  it  had  happened;  a  veritable 
burlesque,  an  opera-bouffe  affair  that  might  turn  quick 
ly  into  a  tragedy  if  either  St.  Pierre  or  Concombre  Ba 
teese  guessed  the  truth  of  it.  For  in  that  event  he 
might  have  to  face  them  again,  with  the  god  of  luck 
playing  fairly,  and  he  was  honest  enough  with  him 
self  to  confess  that  the  idea  no  longer  held  either  thrill 
or  desire  for  him.  Now  that  he  had  seen  both  St, 


234  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

Pierre  and  Bateese  stripped  for  battle,  he  had  no 
further  appetite  for  fistic  discussion  with  them.  After 
all,  there  was  a  merit  in  caution,  and  he  had  several 
lucky  stars  to  bless  just  at  the  present  moment ! 

Inwardly  he  was  a  bit  suspicious  of  the  ultimate  end 
ing  of  the  affair.  St  Pierre  had  almost  no  cause  for 
complaint,  for  it  was  his  own  carelessness,  coupled 
with  his  opponent's  luck,  that  had  been  his  undoing — 
and  luck  and  carelessness  are  legitimate  factors  of  every 
fight,  Carrigan  told  himself.  But  with  Bateese  it  was 
different.  He  had  held  up  his  big  jaw,  uncovered  and 
tempting,  entreating  some  one  to  hit  him,  and  Carrigan 
had  yielded  to  that  temptation.  The  blow  would  have 
stunned  an  ox.  Three  others  like  it  had  left  the  huge 
half-breed  sitting  weak-mindedly  in  the  sand,  and  no 
one  of  those  three  blows  were  exactly  according  to  the 
rules  of  the  game.  They  had  been  mightily  efficacious, 
but  the  half-breed  might  demand  a  rehearing  when  he 
came  fully  into  his  senses. 

Not  until  they  were  half-way  to  the  bateau  did 
Carrigan  dare  to  glance  back  over  his  shoulder  at  the 
man  who  was  paddling,  to  see  what  effect  the  fistic 
travesty  had  left  on  him.  He  was  a  big-mouthed, 
clear-eyed,  powerfully-muscled  fellow,  and  he  was 
grinning  from  ear  to  ear. 

"Well,  what  did  you  think  of  it,  comrade?" 

The  other  gave  his  shoulders  a  joyous  shrug. 

"Mon  Dieu!  Have  you  heard  of  wan  gargon  named 
Joe  Clamart,  m'sieu?  Nonf  Well,  I  am  Joe  Clamart, 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  235 

what  was  once  great  fightin'  man.  Bateese  hav'  whip' 
me  five  times,  m'sieu — so  I  say  it  was  wan  gr-r-r-a-n' 
fight!  Many  years  ago  I  have  seen  ze  same  t'ing  in 
Montreal — ze  boxeur  de  profession.  Old,  an'  Rene 
Babin  pays  me  fifteen  prime  martin  against  which  I 
put  up  three  scrubby  red  fox  that  you  would  win.  They 
were  bad,  or  I  would  not  have  gambled,  m'sieu.  It  ees 
fenny!" 

"Yes,  it  is  funny,"  agreed  David.  "I  think  it  is  a 
bit  too  funny.  It  is  a  pity  they  did  not  stand  up  on 
their  legs  a  little  longer !"  Suddenly  an  inspiration 
hit  him.  "Joe,  what  do  you  say — shall  you  and  I  re 
turn  and  put  up  a  real  fight  for  them  ?" 

Like  a  sprung  trap  Joe  Clamart's  grinning  mouth 
closed.  "Non,  non,  non"  he  grunted.  "Dere  has 
been  plenty  fight,  an'  Joe  Clamart  mus'  save  hees  face 
ior  Antoinette  Roland,  who  hate  ze  sign  of  fight  lak  she 
hate  ze  devil,  m'sieu !  Non,  non!" 

His  paddle  dug  deeper  into  the  water,  and  David's 
heart  felt  lighter.  If  Joe  was  an  average  barometer, 
and  he  was  a  husky  and  fearless-looking  chap,  it  was 
probable  that  neither  St.  Pierre  nor  Bateese  would 
demand  another  chance  at  him,  and  St.  Pierre  would 
pay  his  wager. 

He  could  see  no  one  aboard  the  bateau  when  he 
climbed  from  the  canoe.  Looking  back,  he  saw  that 
two  other  canoes  had  started  from  the  opposite  shore. 
Then  he  went  to  his  cabin  door,  opened  it,  and  entered. 
Scarcely  had  the  door  closed  behind  him  when  he 


236  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

stopped,  staring  toward  the  window  that  opened  on  the 
river. 

Standing  full  in  the  morning  glow  of  it  was  Marie- 
Anne  Boulain.  She  was  facing  him.  Her  cheeks  were 
flushed.  Her  red  lips  were  parted.  Her  eyes  were 
aglow  with  a  fire  which  she  made  no  effort  to  hide 
from  him.  In  her  hand  she  still  held  the  binoculars 
he  had  left  on  the  cabin  table.  He  guessed  the  truth. 
Through  the  glasses  she  had  watched  the  whole  mis 
erable  fiasco. 

He  felt  creeping  over  him  a  sickening  shame,  and 
his  eyes  fell  slowly  from  her  to  the  table.  What  he 
saw  there  caught  his  breath  in  the  middle.  It  was  the 
entire  surgical  outfit  of  Nepapinas,  the  old  Indian 
doctor.  And  there  were  basins  of  water,  and  white 
strips  of  linen  ready  for  use,  and  a  pile  of  medicated 
cotton,  und  all  sorts  of  odds  and  ends  that  one  might 
apply  to  ease  the  agonies  of  a  dying  man.  And  beyond 
the  table,  huddled  in  so  small  a  heap  that  he  was  al 
most  hidden  by  it,  was  Nepapinas  himself,  disappoint 
ment  writ  in  his  mummy-like  face  as  his  beady  eyes 
rested  on  David.  • 

The  evidence  could  not  be  mistaken.  They  had  ex 
pected  him  to  come  back  more  nearly  dead  than  alive, 
and  St.  Pierre's  wife  had  prepared  for  the  thing  she 
had  thought  inevitable.  Even  his  bed  was  nicely  turned 
down,  its  fresh  white  sheets  inviting  an  occupant ! 

And  David,  looking  at  St.  Pierre's  wife  again,  felt 
his  heart  beating  hard  in  his  breast  at  the  look  which 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  237 

was  in  her  eyes.  It  was  not  the  scintillation  of  laugh 
ter,  and  the  flame  in  her  cheeks  was  not  embarrass 
ment.  She  was  not  amused.  The  ludicrousness  of 
her  mislaid  plans  had  not  struck  her  as  they  had  struck 
him.  She  had  placed  the  binoculars  on  the  table,  and 
slowly  she  came  to  him.  Her  hands  reached  out,  and 
her  fingers  rested  like  the  touch  of  velvet  on  his  arms. 

"It  was  splendid!"  she  said  softly.  "It  was 
splendid!" 

She  was  very  near,  her  breast  almost  touching  him, 
her  hands  creeping  up  until  the  tips  of  her  fingers 
rested  on  his  shoulders,  her  scarlet  mouth  so  close 
he  could  feel  the  soft  breath  of  it  in  his  face. 

"It  was  splendid !"  she  whispered  again. 

And  then,  suddenly,  she  rose  up  on  her  tiptoes  and 
kissed  him.  So  swiftly  was  it  done  that  she  was  gone 
before  he  sensed  that  wild  touch  of  her  lips  against 
his  own.  Like  a  swallow  she  was  at  the  door,  and  the 
door  opened  and  closed  behind  her,  and  for  a  moment 
he  heard  the  quick  running  of  her  feet.  Then  he 
looked  at  the  old  Indian,  and  the  Indian,  too,  was 
staring  at  the  door  through  which  St.  Pierre's  wife 
had  flowna 


XXII 

T?OR  many  seconds  that  seemed  like  minutes  David 
•*-  stood  where  she  had  left  him,  while  Nepapinas 
rose  gruntingly  to  his  feet,  and  gathered  up  his  be 
longings,  and  hobbled  sullenly  to  the  bateau  door  and 
out.  He  was  scarcely  conscious  of  the  Indian's  move 
ment,  for  his  soul  was  aflame  with  a  red-hot  fire.  De 
liberately — with  that  ravishing  glory  of  something  in 
her  eyes — St  Pierre's  wife  had  kissed  him!  On  her 
tiptoes,  her  cheeks  like  crimson  flowers,  she  had  given 
her  still  redder  lips  to  him !  And  his  own  lips  burned, 
and  his  heart  pounded  hard,  and  he  stared  for  a  time 
like  one  struck  dumb  at  the  spot  where  she  had  stood 
by  the  window.  Then  suddenly,  he  turned  to  the  door 
and  flung  it  wide  open,  and  on  his  lips  was  the  reck 
less  cry  of  Marie- Anne's  name.  But  St.  Pierre's  wife 
was  gone,  and  Nepapinas  was  gone,  and  at  the  tail 
of  the  big  sweep  sat  only  Joe  Clamart,  guarding 
watchfully. 

The  two  canoes  were  drawing  near,  and  in  one  of 
them  were  two  men,  and  in  the  other  three,  and  David 
knew  that — like  Joe  Clamart — they  were  watchers  set 
over  him  by  St.  Pierre.  Then  a  fourth  canoe  left  the 
far  shore,  and  when  it  had  reached  mid-stream,  he 

238 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  239 

recognized  the  figure  in  the  stern  as  that  of  Andre, 
the  Broken  Man.  The  other,  he  thought,  must  be 
St.  Pierre. 

He  went  back  into  the  cabin  and  stood  where  Marie- 
Anne  had  stood — at  the  window.  Nepapinas  had  not 
taken  away  the  basins  of  water,  and  the  bandages  were 
still  there,  and  the  pile  of  medicated  cotton,  and  the 
suspiciously  made-up  bed.  After  all,  he  was  losing 
something  by  not  occupying  the  bed — and  yet  if  St. 
Pierre  or  Bateese  had  messed  him  up  badly,  and  a 
couple  of  fellows  had  lugged  him  in  between  them, 
it  was  probable  that  Marie-Anne  would  not  have  kissed 
him.  And  that  kiss  of  St.  Pierre's  wife  would  remain 
with  him  until  the  day  he  died ! 

He  was  thinking  of  it,  the  swift,  warm  thrill  of 
her  velvety  lips,  red  as  strawberries  and  twice  as 
sweet,  when  the  door  opened  and  St.  Pierre  came  in. 
The  sight  of  him,  in  this  richest  moment  of  his  life, 
gave  David  no  sense  of  humiliation  or  shame.  Be 
tween  him  and  St.  Pierre  rose  swiftly  what  he  had 
seen  last  night — Carmin  Fanchet  in  all  the  lure  of 
her  disheveled  beauty,  crushed  close  in  the  arms  of 
the  man  whose  wife  only  a  moment  before  had  pressed 
her  lips  close  to  his;  and  as  the  eyes  of  the  two  met, 
there  came  over  him  a  desire  to  tell  the  other  what 
had  happened,  that  he  might  see  him  writhe  with  the 
sting  of  the  two-edged  thing  with  which  he  was  play 
ing.  Then  he  saw  that  even  that  would  not  hurt  St. 
Pierre,  for  the  chief  of  the  Boulains,  standing  there 


240  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

with  the  big  lump  over  his  eye,  had  caught  sight  of 
the  things  on  the  table  and  the  nicely  turned  down  bed, 
and  his  one  good  eye  lit  up  with  sudden  laughter,  and 
his  white  teeth  flashed  in  an  understanding  smile. 

"Tonncrre,  I  said  she  would  nurse  you  with  gentle 
hands,"  he  rumbled.  "See  what  you  have  missed, 
M'sieu  Carrigan!" 

"I  received  something  which  I  shall  remember  longer 
than  a  fine  nursing,"  retorted  David.  "And  yet  right 
now  I  have  a  greater  interest  in  knowing  what  you 
think  of  the  fight,  St.  Pierre — and  if  you  have  come  to 
pay  your  wager." 

St.  Pierre  was  chuckling  mysteriously  in  his  throat. 
"It  was  splendid — splendid,"  he  said,  repeating  Marie- 
Anne's  words.  "And  Joe  Clamart  says  she  ran  out, 
blushing  like  a  red  rose  in  August,  and  that  she  said 
no  word,  but  flew  like  a  bird  into  the  white-birch 
ashore !" 

"She  was  dismayed  because  I  beat  you,  St.  Pierre." 

"Non,  non — she  was  like  a  lark  filled  with  joy." 

Suddenly  his  eyes  rested  on  the  binoculars. 

David  nodded.  "Yes,  she  saw  it  all  through  the 
glasses." 

St.  Pierre  seated  himself  at  the  table  and  heaved  out 
a  groan  as  he  took  one  of  the  bandage  strips  between 
his  fingers.  "She  saw  my  disgrace.  And  she  didn't 
wait  to  bandage  me  up,  did  she?" 

"Perhaps  she  thought  Carrnin  Fanchet  would  do 
that,  St.  Pierre." 

"And  I  am  ashamed  to  go  to  Carmin — with  this 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  241 

great  lump  over  my  eye,  m'sieu.  And  on  top  of  that 
disgrace — you  insist  that  I  pay  the  wager?" 

"I  do." 

St.  Pierre's  face  hardened. 

"Oui,  I  am  to  pay.  I  am  to  tell  you  all  I  know 
about  that  bete  noir — Black  Roger  Audemard.  Is  it 
not  so  ?" 

"That  is  the  wager." 

"But  after  I  have  told  you — what  then?  Do  you 
recall  that  I  gave  you  any  other  guarantee,  M'sieu  Car- 
rigan  ?  Did  I  say  I  would  let  you  go  ?  Did  I  promise 
I  would  not  kill  you  and  sink  your  body  to  the  bottom 
of  the  river?  If  I  did,  I  can  not  remember." 

"Are  you  a  beast,  St.  Pierre — a  murderer  as  well 
as " 

"Stop !  Do  not  tell  me  again  what  you  saw  through 
the  window,  for  it  has  nothing  to  do  with  this.  I  am 
not  a  beast,  but  a  man.  Had  I  been  a  beast,  I  should 
have  killed  you  the  first  day  I  saw  you  in  this  cabin. 
I  am  not  threatening  to  kill  you,  and  yet  it  may  be 
necessary  if  you  insist  that  I  pay  the  wager.  You 
understand,  m'sieu.  To  refuse  to  pay  a  wager  is  a 
greater  crime  among  my  people  than  the  killing  of  a 
man,  if  there  is  a  good  reason  for  the  killing.  I  am 
helpless.  I  must  pay,  if  you  insist.  Before  I  pay  it 
is  fair  that  I  give  you  warning." 

"You  mean  ?'' 

"I  mean  nothing,  as  yet.  I  can  not  say  what  it  will 
be  necessary  for  me  to  do,  after  you  have  heard 
what  I  know  about  Roger  Audemard.  I  am  quite 


242  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

settled  on  a  plan  just  now,  m'sieu,  but  the  plan  might 
change  at  any  moment.  I  am  only  warning  you  that 
it  is  a  great  hazard,  and  that  you  are  playing  with  a  fire 
of  which  you  know  nothing,  because  it  has  not  burned 
you  yet" 

Carrigan  seated  himself  slowly  in  a  chair  opposite 
St.  Pierre,  with  the  table  between  them. 

"You  are  wasting  time  in  attempting  to  frighten 
me/'  he  said.  "I  shall  insist  on  the  payment  of  the 
wager,  St.  Pierre." 

For  a  moment  St.  Pierre  was  clearly  troubled.  Then 
his  lips  tightened,  and  he  smiled  grimly  over  the  table 
at  David. 

"I  am  sorry,  M'sieu  David.  I  like  you.  You  are 
a  fighting  man  and  no  coward,  and  I  should  like  to 
travel  shoulder  to  shoulder  with  you  in  many  things. 
And  such  a  thing  might  be,  for  you  do  not  under 
stand.  I  tell  you  it  would  have  been  many  times  bet 
ter  for  you  had  I  whipped  you  out  there,  and  it  had 
been  you — and  not  me — to  pay  the  wager!" 

"It  is  Roger  Audemard  I  am  interested  in,  St.  Pierre. 
Why  do  you  hesitate?" 

"I?  Hesitate?  I  am  not  hesitating,  m'sieu.  I 
am  giving  you  a  chance."  He  leaned  forward,  his  great 
arms  bent  on  the  table.  "And  you  insist,  M'sieu 
David?" 

"Yes,  I  insist" 

Slowly  the  fingers  of  St.  Pierre's  hands  closed  into 
knotted  fists,  and  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  "Then  I  will 
pay,  m'sieu.  1  am  Roger  Audemard!" 


XXIII 

7 1 AHE  astounding  statement  of  the  man  who  sat 
•*•  opposite  him  held  David  speechless.  He  had 
guessed  at  some  mysterious  relationship  between 
St.  Pierre  and  the  criminal  he  was  after,  but  not  this, 
and  Roger  Audemard,  with  his  hands  unclenching 
and  a  slow  humor  beginning  to  play  about  his  mouth, 
waited  coolly  for  him  to  recover  from  his  amazement 
In  those  moments,  when  his  heart  seemed  to  have 
stopped  beating,  Carrigan  was  staring  at  the  other,  but 
his  mind  had  shot  beyond  him — to  the  woman  who  was 
his  wife.  Marie-Anne  Audemard — the  wife  of  Black 
Roger!  He  wanted  to  cry  out  against  the  possibility 
of  such  a  fact,  yet  he  sat  like  one  struck  dumb,  as  the 
monstrous  truth  took  possession  of  his  brain  and  a 
whirlwind  of  understanding  swept  upon  him.  He  was 
thinking  quickly,  and  with  a  terrific  lack  of  sentiment 
now.  Opposite  him  sat  Black  Roger,  the  wholesale 
murderer.  Marie- Anne  was  his  wife.  Carmin  Fan- 
chet,  sister  of  a  murderer,  was  simply  one  of  his  kind. 
And  Bateese,  the  man-gorilla,  and  the  Broken  Man, 
and  all  the  dark-skinned  pack  about  them  were  of 
Black  Roger's  breed  and  kind.  Love  for  a  woman 
had  blinded  him  to  the  facts  which  crowded  upon  him 

243 


244  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

now.  Like  a  lamb  he  had  fallen  among  wolves,  and 
he  had  tried  to  believe  in  them.  No  wonder  Bateese 
and  the  man  he  had  known  as  St.  Pierre  had  betrayed 
such  merriment  at  times ! 

A  fighting  coolness  possessed  him  as  he  spoke  to 
Black  Roger. 

"I  will  admit  this  is  a  surprise.  And  yet  you  have 
cleared  up  a  number  of  things  very  quickly.  It  proves 
to  me  again  that  comedy  is  not  very  far  removed  from 
tragedy  at  times." 

"I  am  glad  you  see  the  humor  of  it,  M'sieu  David." 
Black  Roger  was  smiling  as  pleasantly  as  his  swollen 
eye  would  permit.  "We  must  not  be  too  serious  when 
we  die.  If  I  were  to  die  a-hanging,  I  would  sing  as 
the  rope  choked  me,  just  to  show  the  world  one  need 
not  be  unhappy  because  his  life  is  coming  to  an  end." 

"I  suppose  you  understand  that  ultimately  I  am 
going  to  give  you  that  opportunity,"  said  David. 

Almost  eagerly  Black  Roger  leaned  toward  him 
over  the  table.  "You  believe  you  are  going  to  hang 
me?" 

"I  am  sure  of  it." 

"And  you  are  willing  to  wager  the  point,  M'sieu 
David?" 

"It  is  impossible  to  gamble  with  a  condemned  man." 

Black  Roger  chuckled,  rubbing  his  big  hands  to 
gether  until  they  made  a  rasping  sound,  and  his  one 
good  eye  glowed  at  Carrigan. 

"Then  I  will  make  a  wager  with  myself,  M'sieu 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  245 

David.  Ma  foi,  I  swear  that  before  the  leaves  fall 
from  the  trees,  you  will  be  pleading  for  the  friendship 
of  Black  Roger  Audemard,  and  you  will  be  as  much  in 
love  with  Carmin  Fanchet  as  I  am!  And  as  for 
Marie- Anne ' ' 

He  thrust  back  his  chair  and  rose  to  his  feet,  the  old 
note  of  subdued  laughter  rumbling  in  his  chest.  "And 
because  I  make  this  wager  with  myself,  I  cannot  kill 
you,  M'sieu  David — though  that  might  be  the  best 
thing  to  do.  I  am  going  to  take  you  to  the  Chateau 
Boulain,  which  is  in  the  forests  of  the  Yellowknife, 
beyond  the  Great  Slave.  Nothing  will  happen  to  you 
if  you  make  no  effort  to  escape.  If  you  do  that,  you 
will  surely  die.  And  that  would  hurt  me,  M'sieu 
David,  because  I  love  you  like  a  brother,  and  in  the 
end  I  know  you  are  going  to  grip  the  hand  of  Black 
Roger  Audemard,  and  get  down  on  your  knees  to 
Carmin  Fanchet.  And  as  for  Marie-Anne " 

Again  he  interrupted  himself,  and  went  out  of  the 
cabin,  laughing.  And  there  was  no  mistake  in  the 
metallic  click  of  the  lock  outside  the  door. 

For  a  time  David  did  not  move  from  his  seat  near 
the  table.  He  had  not  let  Roger  Audemard  see  how 
completely  the  confession  had  upset  his  inner  balance, 
but  he  made  no  pretense  of  concealing  the  thing  from 
himself  now.  He  was  in  the  power  of  a  cut-throat, 
who  in  turn  had  an  army  of  cut-throats  at  his  back, 
and  both  Marie-Anne  and  Carmin  Fanchet  were  a  part 
of  this  ring.  And  he  was  not  only  a  prisoner.  It 


246  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

was  probable,  under  the  circumstances,  that  Black 
Roger  would  make  an  end  of  him  when  a  convenient 
moment  came.  It  was  even  more  than  a  probability. 
It  was  a  grim  necessity.  To  let  him  live  and  escape 
would  be  fatal  to  Black  Roger. 

From  back  of  these  convictions,  riding  over  them 
as  if  to  demoralize  any  coherence  and  logic  that  might 
go  with  the  evidence  he  was  building  up,  came  ques 
tion  after  question,  pounding  at  him  one  after  the 
other,  until  his  mind  became  more  than  ever  a  whirling 
chaos  of  uncertainty.  If  St.  Pierre  was  Black  Roger, 
why  would  he  confess  to  that  fact  simply  to  pay  a 
wager?  What  reason  could  he  have  for  letting  him 
live  at  all?  Why  had  not  Bateese  killed  him?  Why 
had  Marie-Anne  nursed  him  back  to  life?  His  mind 
shot  to  the  white  strip  of  sand  in  which  he  had  nearly 
died.  That,  at  least,  was  convincing.  Learning  in 
some  way  that  he  was  after  Black  Roger,  they  had 
attempted  to  do  away  with  him  there.  But  if  that  were 
so,  why  was  it  Bateese  and  Black  Roger's  wife  and 
the  Indian  Nepapinas  had  risked  so  much  to  make  him 
live,  when  if  they  had  left  him  where  he  had  fallen 
he  would  have  died  and  caused  them  no  trouble  ? 

There  was  something  exasperatingly  uncertain  and 
illogical  about  it  all.  Was  it  possible  that  St.  Pierre 
Boulain  was  playing  a  huge  joke  on  him?  Even  that 
was  inconceivable.  For  there  was  Carmin  Fanchet,  a 
fitting  companion  for  a  man  like  Black  Roger,  and  there 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  247 

was  Marie-Anne,  who,  if  it  had  been  a  joke,  would 
not  have  played  her  part  so  well. 

Suddenly  his  mind  was  filled  only  with  her.  Had 
she  been  his  friend,  using  all  her  influence  to  protect 
him,  because  her  heart  was  sick  of  the  environment 
of  which  she  was  a  part?  His  own  heart  jumped  at 
the  thought.  It  was  easy  to  believe.  In  Marie-Anne 
he  had  faith,  and  that  faith  refused  to  be  destroyed, 
but  persisted — even  clearer  and  stronger  as  he  thought 
again  of  Carmin  Fanchet  and  Black  Roger.  In  his 
heart  grew  the  conviction  it  was  sacrilege  to  believe 
the  kiss  she  had  given  him  that  morning  was  a  lie. 
It  was  something  else — a  spontaneous  gladness,  a  joy 
ous  exultation  that  he  had  returned  unharmed,  a  thing 
unplanned  in  the  soul  of  the  woman,  leaping  from  her 
before  she  could  stop  it.  Then  had  come  shame,  and 
she  had  run  away  from  him  so  swiftly  he  had  not 
seen  her  face  again  after  the  touch  of  her  lips.  If  it 
had  been  a  subterfuge,  a  lie,  she  would  not  have  done 
that. 

He  rose  to  his  feet  and  paced  restlessly  back  and 
forth  as  he  tried  to  bring  together  a  few  tangled  bits 
of  the  puzzle.  He  heard  voices  outside,  and  very  soon 
felt  the  movement  of  the  bateau  under  his  feet,  and 
through  one  of  the  shoreward  windows  he  saw  trees 
and  sandy  beach  slowly  drifting  away.  On  that  shore, 
as  far  as  his  eyes  could  travel  up  and  down,  he  saw 
no  sign  of  Marie-Anne,  but  there  remained  a  canoe, 
and  near  the  canoe  stood  Black  Roger  Audemard,  and 


248  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

beyond  him,  huddled  like  a  charred  stump  in  the  sand, 
was  Andre,  the  Broken  Man.  On  the  opposite  shore 
the  raft  was  getting  under  way. 

During  the  next  half -hour  several  things  happened 
which  told  him  there  was  no  longer  a  sugar-coating 
to  his  imprisonment.  On  each  side  of  the  bateau  two 
men  worked  at  his  windows,  and  when  they  had  fin 
ished,  no  one  of  them  could  be  opened  more  than  a  few 
inches.  Then  came  the  rattle  of  the  lock  at  the  door, 
the  grating  of  a  key,  and  somewhat  to  Carrigan's  sur 
prise  it  was  Bateese  who  came  in.  The  half-breed  bore 
no  facial  evidence  of  the  paralyzing  blows  which  had 
knocked  him  out  a  short  time  before.  His  jaw,  on 
which  they  had  landed,  was  as  aggressive  as  ever,  yet 
in  his  face  and  his  attitude,  as  he  stared  curiously  at 
Carrigan,  there  was  no  sign  of  resentment  or  un 
friendliness.  Nor  did  he  seem  to  be  ashamed.  He 
merely  stared,  with  the  curious  and  rather  puzzled 
eyes  of  a  small  boy  gazing  at  an  inexplicable  oddity. 
Carrigan,  standing  before  him,  knew  what  was  pass 
ing  in  the  other's  mind,  and  the  humor  of  it  brought  a 
smile  to  his  lips. 

Instantly  Concombre's  face  split  into  a  wide  grin. 
"Mon  Dieu,  w'at  if  you  was  on'y  brother  to  Concombre 
Bateese,  m'sieu.  T'ink  of  zat — you — me — frere 
dfarmes!  Venire  saint  gris,  but  we  mak'  all  fightin' 
men  in  nort'  countree  run  lak  rabbits  ahead  of  ze  fox! 
Oui,  we  mak'  gr-r-r-eat  pair,  m'sieu — you,  w'at  knock 
down  Bateese — an'  Bateese,  w'at  keel  polar  bear  wit' 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  249 

hees  naked  hands,  w'at  pull  down  trees,  w'at  chew 
flint  w'en  hees  tobacco  gone." 

His  voice  had  risen,  and  suddenly  there  came  a  laugh 
from  outside  the  door,  and  Concombre  cut  himself 
short  and  his  mouth  closed  with  a  snap.  It  was  Joe 
Clamart  who  had  laughed. 

"I  w'ip  heem  five  time,  an'  now  I  w'ip  heem  seex!" 
hissed  Bateese  in  an  undertone.  "Two  time  each  year 
I  w'ip  zat  garqon  Joe  Clamart  so  he  understan'  w'at 
good  fightin'  man  ees.  An'  you  will  w'ip  heem,  eh, 
m'sieu?  Ouif  An'  I  will  breeng  odder  good  fightin' 
mans  for  you  to  w'ip — all  w'at  Concombre  Bateese  has 
w'ipped — ten,  dozen,  forty — an'  you  w'ip  se  gran' 
bunch,  m'sieu.  Eh,  shall  we  mak'  ze  bargain?" 

"You  are  planning  a  pleasant  time  for  me,  Bateese," 
said  Carrigan,  "but  I  am  afraid  it  will  be  impossi 
ble.  You  see,  this  captain  of  yours,  Black  Roger 
Audemard " 

"W'at!"  Bateese  jumped  as  if  stung.  "W'at  you 
say,  m'sieu?" 

"I  said  that  Roger  Audemard,  Black  Roger,  the  man 
I  thought  was  St.  Pierre  Boulain " 

Carrigan  said  no  more.  What  he  had  started  to 
say  was  unimportant  compared  with  the  effect  of 
Roger  Audemard's  name  on  Concombre  Bateese.  A 
deadly  light  glittered  in  the  half-breed's  eyes,  and  for 
the  first  time  David  realized  that  in  the  grotesque  head 
of  the  riverman  was  a  brain  quick  to  grip  at  the  sig 
nificance  of  things.  The  fact  was  evident  that  Black 


250  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

Roger  had  not  confided  in  Bateese  as  to  the  price 
of  the  wager  and  the  confession  of  his  identity,  and 
for  a  moment  after  the  repetition  of  Audemard's 
name  came  from  David's  lips  the  half-breed  stood  as 
if  something  had  stunned  him.  Then  slowly,  as  if 
forcing  the  words  in  the  face  of  a  terrific  desire  that 
had  transformed  his  body  into  a  hulk  of  quivering 
steel,  he  said : 

"M'sieu — I  come  with  message — from  St.  Pierre. 
You  see  windows — closed.  Outside  door — she  locked. 
On  bot'  sides  de  bateau,  all  de  time,  we  watch.  You 
try  get  away,  an'  we  keel  you.  Zat  ees  all.  We  shoot. 
We  five  mans  on  ze  bateau,  all  ze  day,  tonte  la  mtit. 
You  unnerstan'  ?" 

He  turned  sullenly,  waiting  for  no  reply,  and  the 
door  opened  and  closed  after  him — and  again  came 
the  snap  of  the  lock  outside. 

Steadily  the  bateau  swept  down  the  big  river  that 
day.  There  was  no  let-up  in  the  steady  creaking  of 
the  long  sweep.  Even  in  the  swifter  currents  David 
could  hear  the  working  of  it,  and  he  knew  he  had 
seen  the  last  of  the  more  slowly  moving  raft.  Near 
one  of  the  partly  open  windows  he  heard  two  men 
talking  just  before  the  bateau  shot  into  the  Brule  Point 
rapids.  They  were  strange  voices.  He  learned  that 
Audemard's  huge  raft  was  made  up  of  thirty-five  cribs, 
seven  abreast,  and  that  nine  times  between  the  Point 
Brule  and  the  Yellowknife  the  raft  would  be  split  up, 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  251 

so  that  each  crib  could  be  run  through  dangerous 
rapids  by  itself. 

That  would  be  a  big  job,  David  assured  himself. 
It  would  be  slow  work  as  well  as  hazardous,  and  as  his 
own  life  was  in  no  immediate  jeopardy,  he  would  have 
ample  time  in  which  to  formulate  some  plan  of  action 
for  himself.  At  the  present  moment,  it  seemed,  the 
one  thing  for  him  to  do  was  to  wait — and  behave  him 
self,  according  to  the  half-breed's  instructions.  There 
was,  when  he  came  to  think  about  it,  a  saving  element 
of  humor  about  it  all.  He  had  always  wanted  to  make 
a  trip  down  the  Three  Rivers  in  a  bateau.  And  now — 
he  was  making  it ! 

At  noon  a  guard  brought  in  his  dinner.  He  could 
not  recall  that  he  had  ever  seen  this  man  before,  a 
tall,  lithe  fellow  built  to  run  like  a  hound,  and  who 
wore  a  murderous-looking  knife  at  his  belt.  As  the 
door  opened,  David  caught  a  glimpse  of  two  others. 
They  were  business-like  looking  individuals,  with 
muscles  built  for  work  or  fight;  one  sitting  cross- 
legged  on  the  bateau  deck  with  a  rifle  over  his  knees, 
and  the  other  standing  with  a  rifle  in  his  hand.  The 
man  who  brought  his  dinner  wasted  no  time  or  words. 
He  merely  nodded,  murmured  a  curt  bonjour,  and  went 
out.  And  Carrigan,  as  he  began  to  eat,  did  not  have  to 
tell  himself  twice  that  Audemard  had  been  particular 
in  his  selection  of  the  bateau's  crew,  and  that  the  eyes 
of  the  men  he  had  seen  could  be  as  keen  as  a  hawk's 
when  leveled  over  the  tip  of  a  rifle  barrel.  They  meant 


252  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

business,  and  he  felt  no  desire  to  smile  in  the  face 
of  them,  as  he  had  smiled  at  Concombre  Bateese. 

It  was  another  man,  and  a  stranger,  who  brought 
in  his  supper.  And  for  two  hours  after  that,  until  the 
sun  went  down  and  gloom  began  to  fall,  the  bateau 
sped  down  the  river.  It  had  made  forty  miles  that 
day,  he  figured. 

It  was  still  light  when  the  bateau  was  run  ashore  and 
tied  up,  but  tonight  there  were  no  singing  voices  or 
wild  laughter  of  men  whose  hours  of  play-time  and 
rest  had  come.  To  Carrigan,  looking  through  his  win 
dow,  there  was  an  oppressive  menace  about  it  all.  The 
shadowy  figures  ashore  were  more  like  a  death-watch 
than  a  guard,  and  to  dispel  the  gloom  of  it  he  lighted 
two  of  the  lamps  in  the  cabin,  whistled,  drummed  a 
simple  chord  he  knew  on  the  piano,  and  finally  settled 
down  to  smoking  his  pipe.  He  would  have  welcomed 
the  company  of  Bateese,  or  Joe  Clamart,  or  one  of  the 
guards,  and  as  his  loneliness  grew  upon  him  there  was 
something  of  companionship  even  in  the  subdued 
voices  he  heard  occasionally  outside.  He  tried  to  read, 
but  the  printed  words  jumbled  themselves  and  meant 
nothing. 

It  was  ten  o'clock,  and  clouds  had  darkened  the  night, 
when  through  his  open  windows  he  heard  a  shout  com 
ing  from  the  river.  Twice  it  came  before  it  was  an 
swered  from  the  bateau,  and  the  second  time  Carri 
gan  recognized  it  as  the  voice  of  Roger  Audemard. 
A  brief  interval  passed  between  that  and  the  scraping 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  253 

of  a  canoe  alongside,  and  then  there  was  a  low  con 
versation  in  which  even  Audemard's  great  voice  was 
subdued,  and  after  that  the  grating  of  a  key  in  the 
lock,  and  the  opening  of  the  door,  and  Black  Roger 
came  in,  bearing  an  Indian  reed  basket  under  his  arm. 
Carrigan  did  not  rise  to  meet  him.  It  was  not  like 
the  coming  of  the  old  St.  Pierre,  and  on  Black  Roger's 
lips  there  was  no  twist  of  a  smile,  nor  in  his  eyes  the 
flash  of  good-natured  greeting.  His  face  was  darkly 
stern,  as  if  he  had  traveled  far  and  hard  on  an  un 
pleasant  mission,  but  in  it  there  was  no  shadow  of 
menace,  as  there  had  been  in  that  of  Concombre  Ba- 
tecse.  It  was  rather  the  face  of  a  tired  man,  and  yet 
David  knew  what  he  saw  was  not  physical  exhaus 
tion.  Black  Roger  guessed  something  of  his  thought, 
and  his  mouth  for  an  instant  repressed  a  smile. 

"Yes,  I  have  been  having  a  rough  time,"  he  nodded. 
"This  is  for  you !" 

He  placed  the  basket  on  the  table.  It  held  half  a 
bushel,  and  was  filled  to  the  curve  of  the  handle.  What 
lay  in  it  was  hidden  under  a  cloth  securely  tied  about  it. 

"And  you  are  responsible,"  he  added,  stretching  him 
self  in  a  chair  with  a  gesture  of  weariness.  "I  should 
kill  you,  Carrigan.  And  instead  of  that  I  bring  you 
good  things  to  eat !  Half  the  day  she  has  been  fussing 
\vith  the  things  in  the  basket,  and  then  insisted  that 
I  bring  them  to  you.  And  I  have  brought  them  simply 
to  tell  you  another  thing.  I  am  sorry  for  her.  I  think, 
M'sieu  Carrigan,  you  will  find  as  many  tears  in  the 


254  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

basket  as  anything  else,  for  her  heart  is  crushed  and 
sick  because  of  the  humiliation  she  brought  upon  her 
self  this  morning." 

He  was  twisting  his  big,  rough  hands,  and  David's 
own  heart  went  sick  as  he  saw  the  furrowed  lines  that 
had  deepened  in  the  other's  face.  Black  Roger  did 
not  look  at  him  as  he  went  on. 

"Of  course,  she  told  me.  She  tells  me  everything. 
And  if  she  knew  I  was  telling  you  this,  I  think  she 
would  kill  herself.  But  I  want  you  to  understand. 
She  is  not  what  you  might  think  she  is.  That  kiss 
came  from  the  lips  of  the  best  woman  God  ever  made, 
M'sieu  Carrigan!" 

David,  with  the  blood  in  him  running  like  fire,  heard 
himself  answering,  "I  know  it.  She  was  excited,  glad 
you  had  not  stained  your  hands  with  my  life " 

This  time  Audemard  smiled,  but  it  was  the  smile  of 
a  man  ten  years  older  than  he  had  appeared  yester 
day.  "Don't  try  to  answer,  m'sieu.  I  only  want 
you  to  know  she  is  as  pure  as  the  stars.  It  was  un 
fortunate,  but  to  follow  the  impulse  of  one's  heart 
can  not  be  a  sin.  Everything  has  been  unfortunate 
since  you  came.  But  I  blame  no  one,  except " 

"Carmin  Fanchet?" 

Audemard  nodded.  "Yes.  I  have  sent  her  away. 
Marie- Anne  is  in  the  cabin  on  the  raft  now.  But  even 
Carmin  I  can  not  blame  very  greatly,  m'sieu,  for  it 
is  impossible  to  hold  anything  against  one  you  love. 
Tell  me  if  I  am  right?  You  must  know.  You  love 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  255 

my  Marie-Anne.    Do  you  hold  anything  against  her?" 

"It  is  unfair,"  protested  David.  "She  is  your  wife. 
Audemard,  is  it  possible  you  don't  love  her?" 

"Yes,  I  love  her." 

"And  Carmin  Fanchet?" 

"I  love  her,  too.  They  are  so  different.  Yet  I  love 
them  both.  Is  it  not  possible  for  a  big  heart  like  mine 
to  do  that,  m'sieu?" 

With  almost  a  snort  David  rose  to  his  feet  and  stared 
through  one  of  the  windows  into  the  darkness  of  the 
river.  "Black  Roger,"  he  said  without  turning  his 
head,  "the  evidence  at  Headquarters  condemns  you  as 
one  of  the  blackest-hearted  murderers  that  ever  lived. 
But  that  crime,  to  me,  is  less  atrocious  than  the  one 
you  are  committing  against  your  own  wife.  I  am  not 
ashamed  to  confess  I  love  her,  because  to  deny  it  would 
be  a  lie.  I  love  her  so  much  that  I  would  sacrifice 
myself — soul  and  body — if  that  sacrifice  could  give  you 
back  to  her,  clean  and  undefiled  and  with  your  hand 
unstained  by  the  crime  for  which  you  must  hang !" 

He  did  not  hear  Roger  Audemard  as  he  rose  from 
his  chair.  For  a  moment  the  riverman  stared  at  the 
back  of  David's  head,  and  in  that  moment  he  was  fight 
ing  to  keep  back  what  wanted  to  come  from  his  lips 
in  words.  He  turned  before  David  faced  him  again, 
and  did  not  pause  until  he  stood  at  the  cabin  door  with 
his  hand  at  the  latch.  There  he  was  partly  in  shadow. 

"I  shall  not  see  you  again  until  you  reach  the  Yellow- 
knife,"  he  said.  "Not  until  then  will  you  know — or 


256  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

will  I  know — what  is  going  to  happen.  I  think  you 
will  understand  strange  things  then,  but  that  is  for 
the  hour  to  tell.  Bateese  has  explained  to  you  that  you 
must  not  make  an  effort  to  escape.  You  would  regret 
it,  and  so  would  I.  If  you  have  red  blood  in  you, 
m'sieu — if  you  would  understand  all  that  you  cannot 
understand  now — wait  as  patiently  as  you  can.  Bonne 
nuit,  M'sieu  Carrigan!" 

"Good  night!"  nodded  David. 

In  the  pale  shadows  he  thought  a  mysterious  light 
of  gladness  illumined  Black  Roger's  face  before  the 
door  opened  and  closed,  leaving  him  alone  again. 


XXIV 

TTT'ITH  the  going  of  Black  Roger  also  went  the 
oppressive  loneliness  which  had  gripped  Carri- 
gan,  and  as  he  stood  listening  to  the  low  voices  outside, 
the  undeniable  truth  came  to  him  that  he  did  not  hate 
this  man  as  he  wanted  to  hate  him.  He  was  a  mur 
derer,  and  a  scoundrel  in  another  way,  but  he  felt  irre 
sistibly  the  impulse  to  like  him  and  to  feel  sorry  for 
him.  He  made  an  effort  to  shake  off  the  feeling,  but 
a  small  voice  which  he  could  not  quiet  persisted 
in  telling  him  that  more  than  one  good  man  had 
committed  what  the  law  called  murder,  and  that  per 
haps  he  didn't  fully  understand  what  he  had  seen 
through  the  cabin  window  on  the  raft.  And  yet, 
when  unstirred  by  this  impulse,  he  knew  the  evidence 
was  damning. 

But  his  loneliness  was  gone.  With  Audemard's 
visit  had  come  an  unexpected  thrill,  the  revival  of  an 
almost  feverish  anticipation,  the  promise  of  impending 
things  that  stirred  his  blood  as  he  thought  of  them. 
"You  will  understand  strange  things  then,"  Roger 
Audemard  had  said,  and  something  in  his  voice  had 
been  like  a  key  unlocking  mysterious  doors  for  the 
first  time.  And  then,  "Wait,  as  patiently  as  you  can !" 

257 


258  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

Out  of  the  Dasket  on  the  table  seemed  to  come  to  him 
a  whispering  echo  of  that  same  word — wait !  He  laid 
his  hands  upon  it,  and  a  pulse  of  life  came  with  the 
imagined  whispering.  It  was  from  Marie-Anne.  It 
seemed  as  though  the  warmth  of  her  hands  were  still 
there,  and  as  he  removed  the  cloth  the  sweet  breath 
of  her  came  to  him.  And  then,  in  the  next  instant,  he 
was  trying  to  laugh  at  himself  and  trying  equally  hard 
to  call  himself  a  fool,  for  it  was  the  breath  of  newly- 
baked  things  which  her  fingers  had  made. 

Yet  never  had  he  felt  the  warmth  of  her  presence 
more  strangely  in  his  heart.  He  did  not  try  to  explain 
to  himself  why  Roger  Audemard's  visit  had  broken 
down  things  which  had  seemed  insurmountable  an  hour 
ago.  Analysis  was  impossible,  because  he  knew  the 
transformation  within  himself  was  without  a  shred 
of  reason.  But  it  had  come,  and  with  it  his  imprison 
ment  took  on  another  form.  Where  before  there  had 
been  thought  of  escape  and  a  scheming  to  jail  Black 
Roger,  there  filled  him  now  an  intense  desire  to  reach 
the  Yellowknife  and  the  Chateau  Boulain. 

It  was  after  midnight  when  he  went  to  bed,  and  he 
was  up  with  the  early  dawn.  With  the  first  break  of 
day  the  bateau  men  were  preparing  their  breakfast 
David  was  glad.  He  was  eager  for  the  day's  work  to 
begin,  and  in  that  eagerness  he  pounded  on  the  door 
and  called  out  to  Joe  Clamart  that  he  was  ready  for 
his  breakfast  with  the  rest  of  them,  but  that  he  wanted 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  259 

only  hot  coffee  to  go  with  what  Black  Roger  had 
brought  to  him  in  the  basket. 

That  afternoon  the  bateau  passed  Fort  McMurray, 
and  before  the  sun  was  well  down  in  the  west  Carri- 
gan  saw  the  green  slopes  of  Thickwood  Hills  and  the 
rising  peaks  of  Birch  Mountains.  He  laughed  out 
right  as  he  thought  of  Corporal  Anderson  and  Con 
stable  Frazer  at  Fort  McMurray,  whose  chief  duty 
was  to  watch  the  big  waterway.  How  their  eyes 
would  pop  if  they  could  see  through  the  padlocked 
door  of  his  prison!  But  he  had  no  inclination  to  be 
discovered  now.  He  wanted  to  go  on,  and  with  a 
growing  exultation  he  saw  there  was  no  intention  on 
the  part  of  the  bateau's  crew  to  loiter  on  the  way. 
There  was  no  stop  at  noon,  and  the  tie-up  did  not  come 
until  the  last  glow  of  day  was  darkening  into  the  gloom 
of  night  in  the  sky.  For  sixteen  hours  the  bateau  had 
traveled  steadily,  and  it  could  not  have  made  less  than 
sixty  miles  as  the  river  ran.  The  raft,  David  figured, 
had  not  traveled  a  third  of  the  distance. 

The  fact  that  the  bateau's  progress  would  bring  him 
to  Chateau  Boulain  many  days,  and  perhaps  weeks, 
before  Black  Roger  and  Marie-Anne  could  arrive  on 
the  raft  did  not  check  his  enthusiasm.  It  was  this  in 
terval  between  their  arrivals  which  held  a  great  specu 
lative  promise  for  him.  In  that  time,  if  his  efficiency 
had  not  entirely  deserted  him,  he  would  surely  make 
discoveries  of  importance. 

Day  after  day  the  journey  continued  without  rest 


260  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

On  the  fourth  day  after  leaving  Fort  McMurray  it 
was  Joe  Clamart  who  brought  in  David's  supper,  and 
he  grunted  a  protest  at  his  long  hours  of  muscle- 
breaking  labor  at  the  sweeps.  When  David  questioned 
him  he  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  his  mouth  closed 
tight  as  a  clam.  On  the  fifth,  the  bateau  crossed  the 
narrow  western  neck  of  Lake  Athabasca,  slipping  past 
Chipewyan  in  the  night,  and  on  the  sixth  it  entered 
the  Slave  River.  It  was  the  fourteenth  day  when  the 
bateau  entered  Great  Slave  Lake,  and  the  second  night 
after  that,  as  dusk  gathered  thickly  between  the  forest 
walls  of  the  Yellowknife,  David  knew  that  at  last  they 
had  reached  the  mouth  of  the  dark  and  mysterious 
stream  which  led  to  the  still  more  mysterious  domain 
of  Black  Roger  Audemard. 

That  night  the  rejoicing  of  the  bateau  men  ashore 
was  that  of  men  who  had  come  out  from  under  a  strain 
and  were  throwing  off  its  tension  for  the  first  time  in 
many  days.  A  great  fire  was  built,  and  the  men 
sang  and  laughed  and  shouted  as  they  piled  wood  upon 
it.  In  the  flare  of  this  fire  a  smaller  one  was  built, 
and  kettles  and  pans  were  soon  bubbling  and  sizzling 
over  it,  and  a  great  coffee  pot  that  held  two  gallons 
sent  out  its  steam  laden  with  an  aroma  that  mingled 
joyously  with  the  balsam  and  cedar  smells  in  the  air. 
David  could  see  the  whole  thing  from  his  window,  and 
when  Joe  Clamart  came  in  with  supper,  he  found  the 
meat  they  were  cooking  over  the  fire  was  fresh  moose 
steak.  As  there  had  been  no  trading  or  firing  of  guns 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  261 

coming  down,  he  was  puzzled  and  when  he  asked  where 
the  meat  had  come  from  Joe  Clamart  only  shrugged 
his  shoulders  and  winked  an  eye,  and  went  out  singing 
about  the  allouette  bird  that  had  everything  plucked 
from  it,  one  by  one.  But  David  noticed  there  were 
never  more  than  four  men  ashore  at  the  same  time. 
At  least  one  was  always  aboard  the  bateau,  watching 
his  door  and  windows. 

And  he,  too,  felt  the  thrill  of  an  excitement  working 
subtly  within  him,  and  this  thrill  pounded  in  swifter 
running  blood  when  he  saw  the  men  about  the  fire 
jump  to  their  feet  suddenly  and  go  to  meet  new  and 
shadowy  figures  that  came  up  indistinctly  just  in  the 
edge  of  the  forest  gloom.  There  they  mingled  and 
were  lost  in  identity  for  a  long  time,  and  David  won 
dered  if  the  newcomers  were  cf  the  people  of  Chateau 
Boulain.  After  that,  Bateese  and  Joe  Clamart  and 
two  others  stamped  out  the  fires  and  came  over  the 
plank  to  the  bateau  to  sleep.  David  followed  their  ex 
ample  and  went  to  bed. 

The  cook  fires  were  burning  again  before  the  gray 
dawn  was  broken  by  a  tint  of  the  sun,  and  when  the 
voices  of  many  men  roused  David,  he  went  to  his 
window  and  saw  a  dozen  figures  where  last  night  there 
had  been  only  four.  When  it  grew  lighter  he  recog 
nized  none  of  them.  All  were  strangers.  Then  he 
realized  the  significance  of  their  presence.  The  bateau 
had  been  traveling  north,  but  downstream.  Now  it 
would  still  travel  north,  but  the  water  of  the  Yellow- 


262  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

knife  flowed  south  into  Great  Slave  Lake,  and  the 
bateau  must  be  towed.  He  caught  a  glimpse  of  the 
two  big  York  boats  a  little  later,  and  six  rowers  to  a 
boat,  and  after  that  the  bateau  set  out  slowly  but 
steadily  upstream. 

For  hours  David  was  at  one  window  or  the  other, 
with  something  of  awe  working  inside  him  as  he  saw 
what  they  were  passing  through — and  between.  He 
fancied  the  water  trail  was  like  an  entrance  into  a 
forbidden  land,  a  region  of  vast  and  unbroken  mystery, 
a  country  of  enchantment,  possibly  of  death,  shut  out 
from  the  world  he  had  known.  For  the  stream  nar 
rowed,  and  the  forest  along  the  shores  was  so  dense 
he  could  not  see  into  it.  The  tree-tops  hung  in  a  tan 
gled  canopy  overhead,  and  a  gloom  of  twilight  filled 
the  channel  below,  so  that  where  the  sun  shot  through, 
it  was  like  filtered  moonlight  shining  on  black  oil. 
There  was  no  sound  except  the  dull,  steady  beat  of  the 
rowers'  oars,  and  the  ripple  of  water  along  the  sides 
of  the  bateau.  The  men  did  not  sing  or  laugh,  and 
if  they  talked  it  must  have  been  in  whispers.  There 
was  no  cry  of  birds  from  ashore.  And  once  David 
saw  Joe  Clamart's  face  as  he  passed  the  window,  and 
it  was  set  and  hard  and  filled  with  the  superstition  of 
a  man  who  was  passing  through  a  devil-country. 

And  then  suddenly  the  end  of  it  came.  A  flood  of 
sunlight  burst  in  at  the  windows,  and  all  at  once  voices' 
came  from  ahead,  a  laugh,  a  shout,  and  a  yell  of  re 
joicing  from  the  bateau,  and  Joe  Clamart  started  again 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  263 

the  everlasting  song  of  the  allouette  bird  that  was 
plucked  of  everything  it  had.  Carrigan  found  him 
self  grinning.  They  were  a  queer  people,  these  bred- 
in-the-blood  northerners — still  moved  by  the  super 
stitions  of  children.  Yet  he  conceded  that  the  awe 
some  deadness  of  the  forest  passage  had  put  strange 
thoughts  into  his  own  heart. 

Before  nightfall  Bateese  and  Joe  Clamart  came  in 
and  tied  his  arms  behind  him,  and  he  was  taken  ashore 
with  the  rumble  of  a  waterfall  in  his  ears.  For  two 
hours  he  watched  the  labors  of  the  men  as  they  beached 
the  bateau  on  long  rollers  of  smooth  birch  and  rolled 
it  foot  by  foot  over  a  cleared  trail  until  it  was  launched 
again  above  the  waterfall.  Then  he  was  led  back  into 
the  cabin  and  his  arms  freed.  That  night  he  went  t* 
sleep  with  the  music  of  the  waterfall  in  his  ears. 

The  second  day  the  Yellowknife  seemed  to  be  nfc 
longer  a  river,  but  a  narrow  lake,  and  the  third  day 
the  rowers  came  into  the  Nine  Lake  country  at  noon, 
and  until  another  dusk  the  bateau  threaded  its  way 
through  twisting  channels  and  impenetrable  forests, 
and  beached  at  last  at  the  edge  of  a  great  open  where 
the  timber  had  been  cut.  There  was  more  excitement 
here,  but  it  was  too  dark  for  David  to  understand  the 
meaning  of  it.  There  were  many  voices ;  dogs  barked. 
Then  voices  were  at  his  door,  a  key  rattled  in  the  lock, 
and  it  opened.  David  saw  Bateese  and  Joe  Clamart 
first.  And  then,  to  his  amazement,  Black  Roger  Aude- 


264  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

mard  stood  there,  smiling  at  him  and  nodding  good- 
evening. 

It  was  impossible  for  David  to  repress  his 
astonishment. 

"Welcome  to  Chateau  Boulain,"  greeted  Black 
Roger.  "You  are  surprised?  Well,  I  beat  you  out 
by  half  a  dozen  hours — in  a  canoe,  m'sieu.  It  is  only 
courtesy  that  I  should  be  here  to  give  you  welcome!" 

Behind  him  Bateese  and  Joe  Clamart  were  grinning 
widely,  and  then  both  csme  in,  and  Joe  Clamart  picked 
up  his  dunnage-sack  and  threw  it  over  his  shoulder. 

"If  you  will  come  with  us,  m'sieu " 

David  followed,  and  when  he  stepped  ashore  there 
were  Bateese,  and  Joe  Clamart  and  one  other  behind 
him,  and  three  or  four  shadowy  figures  ahead,  with 
Black  Roger  walking  at  his  side.  There  were  no  more 
voices,  and  the  dog  had  ceased  barking.  Ahead  was  a 
wall  of  darkness,  which  was  the  deep  black  forest  be 
yond  the  clearing,  and  into  it  led  a  trail  which  they  fol 
lowed.  It  was  a  path  worn  smooth  by  the  travel  of 
many  feet,  and  for  a  mile  not  a  star  broke  through 
the  tree-tops  overhead,  nor  did  a  flash  of  light  break 
the  utter  chaos  of  the  way  but  once,  when  Joe  Clamart 
lighted  his  pipe.  No  one  spoke.  Even  Black  Roger 
was  silent,  and  David  found  no  word  to  say. 

At  the  end  of  the  mile  the  trees  began  to  open  above 
their  heads,  and  they  soon  came  to  the  edge  of  the  tim 
ber.  In  the  darkness  David  caught  his  breath.  Dead 
ahead,  not  a  rifle  shot  away,  was  the  Chateau  Boulain. 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  265 

He  knew  it  before  Black  Roger  had  said  a  word.  He 
guessed  it  by  the  lighted  windows,  full  a  score  of  them, 
without  a  curtain  drawn  to  shut  out  their  illumination 
from  the  night.  He  could  see  nothing  but  these  lights, 
yet  they  measured  off  a  mighty  place  to  be  built  of  logs 
in  the  heart  of  a  wilderness,  and  at  his  side  he  heard 
Black  Roger  chuckling  in  low  exultation. 

"Our  home,  m'sieu,"  he  said.  "Tomorrow,  when 
you  see  it  in  the  light  of  day,  you  will  say  it  is  the 
finest  chateau  in  the  north — all  built  of  sweet  cedar 
where  birch  is  not  used,  so  that  even  in  the  deep  snows 
it  gives  us  the  perfume  of  springtime  and  flowers." 

David  did  not  answer,  and  in  a  moment  Audemard 
said: 

"Only  on  Christmas  and  New  Year  and  at  birthdays 
and  wedding  feasts  is  it  lighted  up  like  that.  Tonight 
it  is  in  your  honor,  M'sieu  David."  Again  he  laughed 
softly,  and  under  his  breath  he  added,  "And  there 
is  some  one  waiting  for  you  there  whom  you  will  be 
surprised  to  see!" 

David's  heart  gave  a  jump.  There  was  meaning 
in  Black  Roger's  words  and  no  double  twist  to  what 
he  meant.  Marie-Anne  had  come  ahead  with  her 
husband ! 

Now,  as  they  passed  on  to  the  brilliantly  lighted 
chateau,  David  made  out  the  indistinct  outlines  of 
other  buildings  almost  hidden  in  the  out-creeping 
shadows  of  the  forest-edges,  with  now  and  then  a  ray 
of  light  to  show  people  were  in  them.  But  there  was 


266  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

a  brooding  silence  over  it  all  which  made  him  wonder, 
for  there  was  no  voice,  no  bark  of  dog,  not  even  the 
opening  or  closing  of  a  door.  As  they  drew  nearer, 
he  saw  a  great  veranda  reaching  the  length  of  the 
chateau,  with  screening  to  keep  out  the  summer  pests 
of  mosquitoes  and  flies  and  the  night  prowling  insects 
attracted  by  light.  Into  this  they  went,  up  wide  birch 
steps,  and  ahead  of  them  was  a  door  so  heavy  it  looked 
like  the  postern  gate  of  a  castle.  Black  Roger  opened 
it,  and  in  a  moment  David  stood  beside  him  in  a 
dimly  lighted  hall  where  the  mounted  heads  of  wild 
beasts  looked  down  like  startled  things  from  the  gloom 
of  the  walls.  And  then  David  heard  the  low,  sweet 
notes  of  a  piano  coming  to  them  very  faintly. 

He  looked  at  Black  Roger.  A  smile  was  on  the  lips 
of  the  chateau  master;  his  head  was  up,  and  his  eyes 
glowed  with  pride  and  joy  as  the  music  came  to  him. 
He  spoke  no  word,  but  laid  a  hand  on  David's  arm 
and  led  him  toward  it,  while  Bateese  and  Joe  Clamart 
remained  standing  at  the  entrance  to  the  hall.  David's 
feet  trod  in  thick  rugs  of  fur;  he  saw  the  dim  luster 
of  polished  birch  and  cedar  in  the  walls,  and  over  his 
head  the  ceiling  was  rich  and  matched,  as  in  the  bateau 
cabin.  They  drew  nearer  to  the  music  and  came  to  a 
closed  door.  This  Black  Roger  opened  very  quietly, 
as  if  anxious  not  to  disturb  the  one  who  was  playing. 

They  entered,  and  David  held  his  breath.  It  was  a 
great  room  he  stood  in,  thirty  feet  or  more  from  end 
to  end,  and  scarcely  less  in  width — a  room  brilliant  with 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  267 

light,  sumptuous  in  its  comfort,  sweet  with  the  perfume 
of  wild-flowers,  and  with  a  great  black  fireplace  at  the 
end  of  it,  from  over  which  there  stared  at  him  the  glass 
eyes  of  a  monster  moose.  Then  he  saw  the  figure  at 
the  piano,  and  something  rose  up  quickly  and  choked 
him  when  his  eyes  told  him  it  was  not  Marie-Anne.  It 
was  a  slim,  beautiful  figure  in  a  soft  and  shimmering 
white  gown,  and  its  head  was  glowing  gold  in  the  lamp 
light. 

Roger  Audemard  spoke,  "Carmin!" 

The  woman  at  the  piano  turned  about,  a  little  startled 
at  the  unexpectedness  of  the  voice,  and  then  rose 
quickly  to  her  feet — and  David  Carrigan  found  himself 
looking  into  the  eyes  of  Carmin  Fanchet ! 

Never  had  he  seen  her  more  beautiful  than  in  this 
moment,  like  an  angel  in  her  shimmering  dress  of 
white,  her  hair  a  radiant  glory,  her  eyes  wide  and  glow 
ing — and,  as  she  looked  at  him,  a  smile  coming  to  her 
red  lips.  Yes,  she  was  smiling  at  him — this  woman 
whose  brother  he  had  brought  to  the  hangman,  this 
woman  who  had  stolen  Black  Roger  from  another !  She 
knew  him — he  was  sure  of  that;  she  knew  him  as  the 
man  who  had  believed  her  a  criminal  along  with  her 
brother,  and  who  had  fought  to  the  last  against  her 
freedom.  Yet  from  her  lips  and  her  eyes  and  her  face 
the  old  hatred  was  gone.  She  was  coming  toward  him 
slowly;  she  was  reaching  out  her  hand,  and  half  blindly 
his  own  went  out,  and  he  felt  the  warmth  of  her  fingers 
for  a  moment,  and  he  heard  her  voice  saying  softly, 


268  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

"Welcome  to  Chateau  Boulain,  M'sieu  Carrigan." 

He  bowed  and  mumbled  something,  and  Black  Roger 
gently  pressed  his  arm,  drawing  him  back  to  the  door. 
As  he  went  he  saw  again  that  Carmin  Fanchet  was 
very  beautiful  as  she  stood  there,  and  that  her  lips  were 
very  red — but  her  face  was  white,  whiter  than  he  had 
ever  seen  the  face  of  a  woman  before. 

As  they  went  up  a  winding  stair  to  the  second  floor, 
Roger  Audemard  said,  "I  am  proud  of  my  Carmin, 
M'sieu  David.  Would  any  other  woman  in  the  world 
have  given  her  hand  like  that  to  the  man  who  had  helped 
to  kill  her  brother  ?" 

They  stopped  at  another  door.  Black  Roger  opened 
it.  There  were  lights  within,  and  David  knew  it  was 
to  be  his  room.  Audemard  did  not  follow  him  inside, 
but  there  was  a  flashing  humor  in  his  eyes. 

"I  say,  is  there  another  woman  like  her  in  the  world, 
m'sieu?" 

"What  have  you  done  to  Marie-Anne — your  wife?" 
asked  David. 

It  was  hard  for  him  to  get  the  words  out.  A  ter 
rible  thing  was  gripping  at  his  throat,  and  the  clutch 
of  it  grew  tighter  as  he  saw  the  wild  light  in  Black 
Roger's  eyes. 

"Tomorrow  you  will  know,  m'sieu.  But  not  to 
night.  You  must  wait  until  tomorrow." 

He  nodded  and  stepped  back,  and  the  door  closed — 
and  in  the  same  instant  came  the  harsh  grating  of  a  key 
in  the  lock. 


XXV 

/^ARRIGAN  turned  slowly  and  looked  about  his 
^-^  room.  There  was  no  other  door  except  one  open 
ing  into  a  closet,  and  but  two  windows.  Curtains  were 
drawn  at  these  windows,  and  he  raised  them.  A  grim 
smile  came  to  his  lips  when  he  saw  the  white  bars  of 
tough  birch  nailed  across  each  of  them,  outside  the 
glass.  He  could  see  the  birch  had  been  freshly  stripped 
of  bark  and  had  probably  been  nailed  there  that  day. 
Carmin  Fanchet  and  Black  Roger  had  welcomed  him  to 
Chateau  Boulain,  but  they  were  evidently  taking  no 
chances  with  their  prisoner.  And  where  was  Marie- 
Anne? 

The  question  was  insistent,  and  with  it  remained  that 
cold  grip  of  something  in  his  heart  that  had  come  with 
the  sight  of  Carmin  Fanchet  below.  Was  it  possible 
that  Carmin's  hatred  still  lived,  deadlier  than  ever,  and 
that  with  Black  Roger  she  had  plotted  to  bring  him 
here  so  that  her  vengeance  might  be  more  complete — 
and  a  greater  torture  to  him?  Were  the^  smiling  and 
offering  him  their  hands,  even  as  they  knew  he  was 
about  to  die?  And  if  that  was  conceivable,  what  had 
they  done  with  Marie- Anne? 

He  looked  about  the  room.  It  was  singularly  bare, 
in  an  unusual  sort  of  way,  he  thought.  There  were 

269 


270  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

rich  rugs  on  the  floor — three  magnificent  black  bear 
skins,  and  two  wolf.  The  heads  of  two  bucks  and  a 
splendid  caribou  hung  against  the  walls.  He  could  see, 
from  marks  on  the  floor,  wrhere  a  bed  had  stood,  but 
this  bed  was  now  replaced  by  a  couch  made  up  com 
fortably  for  one  inclined  to  sleep.  The  significance  of 
the  thing  was  clear — nowhere  in  the  room  could  he  lay 
his  hand  upon  an  object  that  might  be  used  as  a 
weapon ! 

His  eyes  again  sought  the  white-birch  bars  of  his 
prison,  and  he  raised  the  two  windows  so  that  the  cool, 
sweet  breath  of  the  forests  reached  in  to  him.  It  was 
then  that  he  noticed  the  mosquito-proof  screening 
nailed  outside  the  bars.  It  was  rather  odd,  this  think 
ing  of  his  comfort  even  as  they  planned  to  kill  him ! 

If  there  was  truth  to  this  new  suspicion  that  Black 
Roger  and  his  mistress  were  plotting  both  vengeance 
and  murder,  their  plans  must  also  involve  Marie- Anne. 
Suddenly  his  mind  shot  back  to  the  raft.  Had  Black 
Roger  turned  a  clever  coup  by  leaving  his  wife  there, 
while  he  came  on  ahead  of  the  bateau  with  Carmin 
Fanchet?  It  would  be  several  weeks  before  the  raft 
reached  the  Yellowknife,  and  in  that  time  many  things 
might  happen.  The  thought  worried  him.  He  was  not 
afraid  for  himself.  Danger,  the  combating  of  physical 
forces,  was  his  business.  His  fear  was  for  Marie- 
Anne.  He  had  seen  enough  to  know  that  Black  Roger 
was  hopelessly  infatuated  with  Carmin  Fanchet.  And 
several  things  might  happen  aboard  the  raft,  planned  by 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  271 

agents  as  black-souled  as  himself.  If  they  killed  Marie- 
Anne 

His  hand  gripped  the  knob  of  the  door,  and  for  a 
moment  he  was  filled  with  the  impulse  to  shout  for 
Black  Roger  and  face  him  with  what  was  in  his  mind. 
And  as  he  stood  there,  every  muscle  in  his  body  ready 
to  fight,  there  came  to  him  faintly  the  sound  of  music. 
He  heard  the  piano  first,  and  then  a  woman's  voice  sing 
ing.  Soon  a  man's  voice  joined  the  woman's,  and  he 
knew  it  was  Black  Roger,  singing  with  Carmin  Fanchet. 

Suddenly  the  mad  impulse  in  his  heart  went  out,  and 
he  leaned  his  head  nearer  to  the  crack  of  the  door,  and 
strained  his  ears  to  hear.  He  could  make  out  no  word 
of  the  song,  yet  the  singing  came  to  him  with  a  thrill 
that  set  his  lips  apart  and  brought  a  staring  wonder 
into  his  eyes.  In  the  room  below  him,  fifteen  hundred 
miles  from  civilization,  Black  Roger  and  Carmin 
Fanchet  were  singing  "Home,  Sweet  Home!'' 

An  hour  later  David  looked  through  one  of  the 
barred  windows  upon  a  world  lighted  by  a  splendid 
moon.  He  could  see  the  dark  edge  of  the  distant  for 
est  that  rimmed  in  the  chateau,  and  about  him  seemed 
to  be  a  level  meadow,  with  here  and  there  the  shadow 
of  a  building  in  which  the  lights  were  out.  Stars  were 
thick  in  the  sky,  and  a  strange  quietness  hovered  over 
the  world  he  looked  upon.  From  below  him  floated 
up  now  and  then  a  perfume  of  tobacco  smoke.  The 
guard  under  his  window  was  awake,  but  he  made  no 
sound. 


272  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

A  little  later  he  undressed,  put  out  the  two  lights  in 
his  room,  and  stretched  himself  between  the  cool,  white 
sheets  on  the  couch.  After  a  time  he  slept,  but  it  was 
a  restless  slumber  filled  with  troubled  dreams.  Twice 
he  was  half  awake,  and  the  second  time  it  seemed  to 
him  his  nostrils  sensed  a  sharper  tang  of  smoke  than 
that  of  burning  tobacco,  yet  he  did  not  fully  rouse  him 
self,  and  the  hours  passed,  and  new  sounds  and  smells 
that  rose  in  the  night  impinged  themselves  upon  him 
only  as  a  part  of  the  troublous  fabric  of  his  dreams. 
But  at  last  there  came  a  shock,  something  which  beat 
over  these  things  which  chained  him,  and  seized  upon 
his  consciousness,  demanding  that  he  rouse  himself, 
open  his  eyes,  and  get  up. 

He  obeyed  the  command,  and  before  he  was  fully 
awake,  found  himself  on  his  feet.  It  was  still  dark,  but 
he  heard  voices,  voices  no  longer  subdued,  but  filled 
with  a  wild  note  of  excitement  and  command.  And 
what  he  smelled  was  not  the  smell  of  tobacco  smoke! 
It  was  heavy  in  his  room.  It  rilled  his  lungs.  His  eyes 
were  smarting  with  the  sting  of  it. 

Then  came  vision,  and  with  a  startled  cry  he  leaped 
to  a  window.  To  the  north  and  east  he  looked  out 
upon  a  flaming  world ! 

With  his  fist  he  rubbed  his  smarting  eyes.  The 
moon  was  gone.  The  gray  he  saw  outside  must  be  the 
coming  of  dawn,  ghostly  with  that  mist  of  smoke  that 
had  come  into  his  room.  He  could  see  shadowy  figures 
of  men  running  swiftly  in  and  out  and  disappearing, 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  273 

and  he  could  hear  the  voices  of  women  and  children, 
and  from  beyond  the  edge  of  the  forest  to  the  west 
came  the  howling  of  many  dogs.  One  voice  rose  above 
the  others.  It  was  Black  Roger's,  and  at  its  commands 
little  groups  of  figures  shot  out  into  the  gray  smoke- 
gloom  and  did  not  appear  again. 

North  and  east  the  sky  was  flaming  sullen  red,  and 
a  breath  of  air  blowing  gently  in  David's  face  told  him 
the  direction  of  the  wind.  The  chateau  lay  almost  in 
the  center  of  the  growing  line  of  conflagration. 

He  dressed  himself  and  went  again  to  the  window. 
Quite  distinctly  now,  he  could  make  out  Joe  Clamart 
under  his  window,  running  toward  the  edge  of  the  for 
est  at  the  head  of  half  a  dozen  men  and  boys  who 
carried  axes  and  cross-cut  saws  over  their  shoulders. 
It  was  the  last  of  Black  Roger's  people  that  he  saw  for 
some  time  in  the  open  meadow,  but  from  the  front  of 
the  chateau  he  could  hear  many  voices,  chiefly  of 
women  and  children,  and  guessed  it  was  from  there 
that  the  final  operations  against  the  fire  were  being  di 
rected.  The  wind  was  blowing  stronger  in  his  face. 
With  it  came  a  sharper  tang  of  smoke,  and  the  widen 
ing  light  of  day  was  fighting  to  hold  its  own  against 
the  deepening  pall  of  flame-lit  gloom  advancing  with 
the  wind. 

There  seemed  to  come  a  low  and  distant  sound  with 
that  wind,  so  indistinct  that  to  David's  ears  it  was  like 
a  murmur  a  thousand  miles  away.  He  strained  his 
ears  to  hear,  and  as  he  listened,  there  came  another 


274  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

sound — a  moaning,  sobbing  voice  below  his  window ! 
It  was  grief  he  heard  now,  something  that  went  to  his 
heart  and  held  him  cold  and  still.  The  voice  was 
sobbing  like  that  of  a  child,  yet  he  knew  it  was  not 
a  child's.  Nor  was  it  a  woman's.  A  figure  came  out 
slowly  in  his  view,  humped  over,  twisted  in  its  shape, 
and  he  recognized  Andre,  the  Broken  Man.  David 
could  see  that  he  was  crying  like  a  child,  and  he  was 
facing  the  flaming  forests,  with  his  arms  reaching  out 
to  them  in  his  moaning.  Then,  of  a  sudden,  he  gave 
a  strange  cry,  as  if  defiance  had  taken  the  place  of 
grief,  and  he  hurried  across  the  meadow  and  disap 
peared  into  the  timber  where  a  great  lightning-riven 
spruce  gleamed  dully  white  through  the  settling  veil 
of  smoke-mist. 

For  a  space  David  looked  after  him,  a  strange  beat 
ing  in  his  heart.  It  was  as  if  he  had  seen  a  little  child 
going  into  the  face  of  a  deadly  peril,  and  at  last  he 
shouted  out  for  some  one  to  bring  back  the  Broken 
Man.  But  there  was  no  answer  from  under  his  win 
dow.  The  guard  was  gone.  Nothing  lay  between  him 
and  escape — if  he  could  force  the  white  birch  bars  from 
the  window. 

He  thrust  himself  against  them,  using  his  shoulder 
as  a  battering-ram.  Not  the  thousandth  part  of  an 
inch  could  he  feel  them  give,  yet  he  worked  until  his 
shoulder  was  sore.  Then  he  paused  and  studied  the 
bars  more  carefully.  Only  one  thing  would  avail  him, 
and  that  was  some  object  which  he  might  use  as  a 
lever. 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  275 

He  looked  about  him,  and  not  a  thing  was  there  in  the 
room  to  answer  the  purpose.  Then  his  eyes  fell  on  the 
splendid  horns  of  the  caribou  head.  Black  Roger's  dis 
cretion  had  failed  him  there,  and  eagerly  David  pulled 
the  head  down  from  the  wall.  He  knew  the  woods 
man's  trick  of  breaking  off  a  horn  from  the  skull,  yet 
in  this  room,  without  log  or  root  to  help  him,  the  task 
was  difficult,  and  it  was  a  quarter  of  an  hour  after  he 
had  last  seen  the  Broken  Man  before  he  stood  again 
at  the  window  with  the  caribou  horn  in  his  hands.  He 
no  longer  had  to  hold  his  breath  to  hear  the  low  moan 
ing  in  the  wind,  and  where  there  had  been  smoke- 
gloom  before  there  were  now  black  clouds  rolling  and 
twisting  up  over  the  tops  of  the  north  and  eastern  for 
ests,  as  if  mighty  breaths  were  playing  with  them  from 
behind. 

David  thrust  the  big  end  of  the  caribou  horn  between 
two  of  the  white-birch  bars,  but  before  he  had  put  his 
weight  to  the  lever  he  heard  a  great  voice  coming  round 
the  end  of  the  chateau,  and  it  was  calling  for  Andre, 
the  Broken  Man.  In  a  moment  it  was  followed  by 
Black  Roger  Audemard,  who  ran  under  the  window 
and  faced  the  lightning-struck  spruce  as  he  shouted 
Andre's  name  again. 

Suddenly  David  called  down  to  him,  and  Black 
Roger  turned  and  looked  up  through  the  smoke-gloom, 
his  head  bare,  his  arms  naked,  and  his  eyes  gleaming 
wildly  as  he  listened. 

"He  went  that  way  twenty  minutes  ago,"  David 
shouted.  "He  disappeared  into  the  forest  where  you 


276  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

see  the  dead  spruce  yonder.  And  he  was  crying,  Black 
Roger — he  was  crying  like  a  child." 

If  there  had  been  other  words  to  finish,  Black  Roger 
would  not  have  heard  them.  He  was  running  toward 
the  old  spruce,  and  David  saw  him  disappear  where  the 
Broken  Man  had  gone.  Then  he  put  his  weight  on  the 
horn,  and  one  of  the  tough  birch  bars  gave  way  slowly, 
and  after  that  a  second  was  wrenched  loose,  and  a 
third,  until  the  lower  half  of  the  window  was  free  of 
them  entirely.  He  thrust  out  his  head  and  found  no 
one  within  the  range  of  his  vision.  Then  he  worked 
his  way  through  the  window,  feet  first,  and  hanging 
the  length  of  arms  and  body  from  the  lower  sill, 
dropped  to  the  ground. 

Instantly  he  faced  the  direction  taken  by  Roger 
Audemard,  it  was  his  turn  now,  and  he  felt  a  savage 
thrill  in  his  blood.  For  an  instant  he  hesitated,  held 
by  the  impulse  to  rush  to  Carmin  Fanchet  and  with  his 
fingers  at  her  throat,  demand  what  she  and  her  para 
mour  had  done  with  Marie-Anne.  But  the  mighty  de 
termination  to  settle  it  all  with  Black  Roger  himself 
overwhelmed  that  impulse  like  an  inundation.  Black 
Roger  had  gone  into  the  forest.  He  was  separated  from 
his  people,  and  the  opportunity  was  at  hand. 

Positive  that  Marie-Anne  had  been  left  with  the  raft, 
the  thought  that  the  Chateau  Boulain  might  be  de 
voured  by  the  onrushing  conflagration  did  not  appal 
David.  The  chateau  held  little  interest  for  him  now. 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  277 

It  was  Black  Roger  he  wanted.  As  he  ran  toward  the 
old  spruce,  he  picked  up  a  club  that  lay  in  the  path. 

This  path  was  a  faintly-worn  trail  where  it  entered 
the  forest  beyond  the  spruce,  very  narrow,  and  with 
brush  hanging  close  to  the  sides  of  it,  so  that  David 
knew  it  was  not  in  general  use  and  that  but  few  feet 
had  ever  used  it.  He  followed  swiftly,  and  in  five 
minutes  came  suddenly  out  into  a  great  open  thick 
with  smoke,  and  here  he  saw  why  Chateau  Boulain 
would  not  burn.  The  break  in  the  forest  was  a  clear 
ing  a  rifle-shot  in  width,  free  of  brush  and  grass,  and 
partly  tilled;  and  it  ran  in  a  semi-circle  as  far  as  he 
could  see  through  the  smoke  in  both  directions.  Thus 
had  Black  Roger  safeguarded  his  wilderness  castle, 
while  providing  tillable  fields  for  his  people;  and  as 
David  followed  the  faintly  beaten  path,  he  saw  green 
stuffs  growing  on  both  sides  of  him,  and  through  the 
center  of  the  clearing  a  long  strip  of  wheat,  green  and 
very  thick.  Up  and  down  through  the  fog  of  smoke 
he  could  hear  voices,  and  he  knew  it  was  this  great, 
circular  fire-clearing  the  people  of  Chateau  Boulain 
were  watching  and  guarding. 

But  he  saw  no  one  as  he  trailed  across  the  open.  In 
soft  patches  of  the  earth  he  found  footprints  deeply 
made  and  wide  apart,  the  footprints  of  hurrying  men, 
telling  him  Black  Roger  and  the  Broken  Man  were  both 
ahead  of  him,  and  that  Black  Roger  was  running  when 
he  crossed  the  clearing. 

The  footprints  led  him  to  a  still  more  indistinct  trail 


278  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

in  the  farther  forest,  a  trail  which  went  straight  into 
the  face  of  the  fire  ahead.  He  followed  it.  The  dis 
tant  murmur  had  grown  into  a  low  moaning  over  the 
tree-tops,  and  with  it  the  wind  was  coming  stronger, 
and  the  smoke  thicker.  For  a  mile  he  continued  along 
the  path,  and  then  he  stopped,  knowing  he  had  come 
to  the  dead-line.  Over  him  was  a  swirling  chaos.  The 
fire-wind  had  grown  into  a  roar  before  which  the  tree- 
tops  bent  as  if  struck  by  a  gale,  and  in  the  air  he 
breathed  he  could  feel  a  swiftly  growing  heat.  For  a 
space  he  stood  there,  breathing  quickly  in  the  face  of  a 
mighty  peril.  Where  had  Black  Roger  and  the  Broken 
Man  gone  ?  What  mad  impulse  could  it  be  that  dragged 
them  still  farther  into  the  path  of  death?  Or  had  they 
struck  aside  from  the  trail  ?  Was  he  alone  in  danger? 

As  if  in  answer  to  the  questions  there  came  from 
far  ahead  of  him  a  loud  cry.  It  was  Black  Roger's 
voice,  and  as  he  listened,  it  called  over  and  over  again 
the  Broken  Man's  name, 

"Andre — Andre — Andre " 

Something  in  the  cry  held  Carrigan.  There  was  a 
note  of  terror  in  it,  a  wild  entreaty  that  was  almost 
drowned  in  the  trembling  wind  and  the  moaning  that 
was  in  the  air.  David  was  ready  to  turn  back.  He 
had  already  approached  too  near  to  the  red  line  of 
death,  yet  that  cry  of  Black  Roger  urged  him  on  like 
the  lash  of  a  whip.  He  plunged  ahead  into  the  chaos 
of  smoke,  no  longer  able  to  distinguish  a  trail  under  his 
feet.  Twice  again  in  as  many  minutes  he  heard  Black 
Roger's  voice,  and  ran  straight  toward  it.  The  blood 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  279 

of  the  hunter  rushed  over  all  other  things  in  his  veins. 
The  man  he  wanted  was  ahead  of  him  and  the  moment 
had  passed  when  danger  or  fear  of  death  could  drive 
him  back.  Where  Black  Roger  lived,  he  could  live, 
and  he  gripped  his  club  and  ran  through  the  low  brush 
that  whipped  in  stinging  lashes  against  his  face  and 
hands. 

He  came  to  the  foot  of  a  ridge,  and  from  the  top  of 
this  he  knew  Black  Roger  had  called.  It  was  a  huge 
hog's-back,  rising  a  hundred  feet  up  out  of  the  forest, 
and  when  he  reached  the  top  of  it,  he  was  panting  for 
breath.  It  was  as  if  he  had  come  suddenly  within  the 
blast  of  a  hot  furnace.  North  and  east  the  forest  lay 
under  him,  and  only  the  smoke  obstructed  his  vision. 
But  through  this  smoke  he  could  make  out  a  thing 
that  made  him  rub  his  eyes  in  a  fierce  desire  to  see  more 
clearly.  A  mile  away,  perhaps  two,  the  conflagration 
seemed  to  be  splitting  itself  against  the  tip  of  a  mighty 
wedge.  He  could  hear  the  roar  of  it  to  the  right  of  him 
and  to  the  left,  but  dead  ahead  there  was  only  a  moan 
ing  whirlpool  of  fire-heated  wind  and  smoke.  And 
out  of  this,  as  he  looked,  came  again  the  cry, 

"Andre— Andre— Andre !" 

Again  he  stared  north  and  south  through  the  smoke- 
gloom.  Mountains  of  resinous  clouds,  black  as  ink, 
were  swirling  skyward  along  the  two  sides  of  the  giant 
wedge.  Under  that  death-pall  the  flames  were  sweep 
ing  through  the  spruce  and  cedar  tops  like  race-horses, 
hidden  from  his  eyes.  If  they  closed  in  there  could 
be  no  escape;  in  fifteen  minutes  they  would  inundate 


280  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

him,  and  it  would  take  him  half  an  hour  to  reach  the 
safety  of  the  clearing. 

His  heart  thumped  against  his  ribs  as  he  hurried 
down  the  ridge  in  the  direction  of  Black  Roger's  voice. 
The  giant  wedge  of  the  forest  was  not  burning — yet, 
and  Audemard  was  hurrying  like  mad  toward  the  tip 
of  that  wedge,  crying  out  now  and  then  the  name  of 
the  Broken  Man.  And  always  he  kept  ahead,  until  at 
last — a  mile  from  the  ridge — David  came  to  the  edge 
of  a  wide  stream  and  saw  what  it  was  that  made  the 
wedge  of  forest.  For  under  his  eyes  the  stream  split, 
and  two  arms  of  it  widened  out,  and  along  each  shore 
of  the  two  streams  was  a  wide  fire-clearing  made  by 
the  axes  of  Black  Roger's  people,  who  had  foreseen 
this  day  when  fire  might  sweep  their  world. 

Carrigan  dashed  water  into  his  eyes,  and  it  was 
warm.  Then  he  looked  across.  The  fire  had  passed, 
the  pall  of  smoke  was  clearing  away,  and  what  he  saw 
was  the  black  corpse  of  a  world  that  had  been  green. 
It  was  smoldering;  the  deep  mold  was  afire.  Little 
tongues  of  flame  still  licked  at  ten  thousand  stubs 
charred  by  the  fire-death — and  there  was  no  wind  here, 
and  only  the  whisper  of  a  distant  moaning  sweeping 
farther  and  farther  away. 

And  then,  out  of  that  waste  across  the  river,  David 
heard  a  terrible  cry.  It  was  Black  Roger,  still  calling 
— even  in  that  place  of  hopeless  death — for  Andre, 
the  Broken  Man ! 


XXVI 

TNTO  the  stream  Carrigan  plunged  and  found  it 
only  waist-deep  in  crossing.  He  saw  where  Black 
Roger  had  come  out  of  the  water  and  where  his  feet 
had  plowed  deep  in  the  ash  and  char  and  smoldering 
debris  ahead.  This  trail  he  followed.  The  air  he 
breathed  was  hot  and  filled  with  stifling  clouds  of  ash 
and  char-dust  and  smoke.  His  feet  struck  red-hot 
embers  under  the  ash,  and  he  smelled  burning  leather. 
A  forest  of  spruce  and  cedar  skeletons  still  crackled  and 
snapped  and  burst  out  into  sudden  tongues  of  flame 
about  him,  and  the  air  he  breathed  grew  hotter,  and 
his  face  burned,  and  into  his  eyes  came  a  smarting  pain 
— when  ahead  of  him  he  saw  Black  Roger.  He  was  no 
longer  calling  out  the  Broken  Man's  name,  but  was 
crashing  through  the  smoking  chaos  like  a  great  beast 
that  had  gone  both  blind  and  mad.  Twice  David 
turned  aside  where  Black  Roger  had  rushed  through 
burning  debris,  and  a  third  time,  following  where 
Audemard  had  gone,  his  feet  felt  the  sudden  stab  of 
living  coals.  In  another  moment  he  would  have  shouted 
Black  Roger's  name,  but  even  as  the  words  were  on 
his  lips,  mingled  with  a  gasp  of  pain,  the  giant  river- 
man  stopped  where  the  forest  seemed  suddenly  to  end 
in  a  ghostly,  smoke-filled  space,  and  when  David  came 

281 


282  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

up  behind  him,  he  was  standing  at  the  black  edge  of  a 
cliff  which  leaped  off  into  a  smoldering  valley  below. 

Out  of  this  narrow  valley  between  two  ridges,  an 
hour  ago  choked  with  living  spruce  and  cedar,  rose  up 
a  swirling,  terrifying  heat.  Down  into  this  pit  of  death 
Black  Roger  stood  looking,  and  David  heard  a  strange 
moaning  coming  in  his  breath.  His  great,  bare  arms 
were  black  and  scarred  with  heat ;  his  hair  was  burned ; 
his  shirt  was  torn  from  his  shoulders.  When  David 
spoke — and  Black  Roger  turned  at  the  sound — his  eyes 
glared  wildly  out  of  a  face  that  was  like  a  black  mask. 
And  when  he  saw  it  was  David  who  had  spoken,  his 
great  body  seemed  to  sag,  and  with  an  unintelligible 
cry  he  pointed  down. 

David,  staring,  saw  nothing  with  his  half-blind 
eyes,  but  under  his  feet  he  felt  a  sudden  giving  way, 
and  the  fire-eaten  tangle  of  earth  and  roots  broke  off 
like  a  rotten  ledge,  and  with  it  both  he  and  Black  Roger 
went  crashing  into  the  depths  below,  smothered  in  an 
avalanche  of  ash  and  sizzling  earth.  At  the  bottom 
David  lay  for  a  moment,  partly  stunned.  Then  his 
fingers  clutched  a  bit  of  living  fire,  and  with  a  savage 
cry  he  staggered  to  his  feet  and  looked  to  see  Black 
Roger.  For  a  space  his  eyes  were  blinded,  and  when 
at  last  he  could  see,  he  made  out  Black  Roger,  fifty 
feet  away,  dragging  himself  on  his  hands  and  knees 
through  the  blistering  muck  of  the  fire.  And  then,  as 
he  stared,  the  stricken  giant  came  to  the  charred  rem 
nant  of  a  stump  and  crumpled  over  it  with  a  great  cry, 
moaning  again  that  name 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  283 

"Andre— Andre " 

David  hurried  to  him,  and  as  he  put  his  hands  under 
Black  Roger's  arms  to  help  him  to  his  feet,  he  saw 
that  the  charred  stump  was  not  a  stump,  but  the  fire- 
shriveled  corpse  of  Andre,  the  Broken  Man! 

Horror  choked  back  speech  on  his  own  lips.  Black 
Roger  looked  up  at  him,  and  a  great  breath  came  in 
a  sob  out  of  his  body.  Then,  suddenly,  he  seemed  to 
get  grip  of  himself,  and  his  burned  and  bleeding  fingers 
closed  about  David's  hand  at  his  shoulder. 

"I  knew  he  was  coming  here,"  he  said,  the  words 
forcing  themselves  with  an  effort  through  his  swollen 
lips.  "He  came  home — to  die." 

"Home ?" 

"Yes.  His  mother  and  father  were  buried  here 
nearly  thirty  years  ago,  and  he  worshiped  them.  Look 
at  him,  Carrigan.  Look  at  him  closely.  For  he  is 
the  man  you  have  wanted  all  these  years,  the  finest 
man  God  ever  made,  Roger  Audemard!  When  he 
saw  the  fire,  he  came  to  shield  their  graves  from  the 
flames.  And  now  he  is  dead!" 

A  moan  came  to  his  lips,  and  the  weight  of  his  body 
grew  so  heavy  that  David  had  to  exert  his  strength  to 
keep  him  from  falling. 

"And  you?"  he  cried.  "For  God's  sake,  Audemard 
—tell  me " 

"I,  m'sieu?  Why,  I  am  only  St.  Pierre  Audemard, 
his  brother." 

And  with  that  his  head  dropped  heavily,  and  he  was 
like  a  dead  man  in  David's  arms. 


284  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

How  at  last  David  came  to  the  edge  of  the  stream 
again,  with  the  weight  of  St.  Pierre  Audemard  on  his 
shoulders,  was  a  torturing  nightmare  which  would 
never  be  quite  clear  in  his  brain.  The  details  were  ob 
literated  in  the  vast  agony  of  the  thing.  He  knew  that 
he  fought  as  he  had  never  fought  before;  that  he 
stumbled  again  and  again  in  the  fire-muck;  that  he 
was  burned,  and  blinded,  and  his  brain  was  sick. 
But  he  held  to  St.  Pierre,  with  his  twisted,  broken  leg, 
knowing  that  he  would  die  if  he  dropped  him  into  the 
flesh-devouring  heat  of  the  smoldering  debris  under 
his  feet.  Toward  the  end  he  was  conscious  of  St. 
Pierre's  moaning,  and  then  of  his  voice  speaking  to 
him.  After  that  he  came  to  the  water  and  fell  down 
in  the  edge  of  it  with  St.  Pierre,  and  inside  his  head 
everything  went  as  black  as  the  world  over  which  the 
fire  had  swept. 

He  did  not  know  how  terribly  he  was  hurt.  He  did 
not  feel  pain  after  the  darkness  came.  Yet  he  sensed 
certain  things.  He  knew  that  over  him  St.  Pierre  was 
shouting.  For  days,  it  seemed,  he  could  hear  nothing 
but  that  great  voice  bellowing  away  in  the  interminable 
distance.  And  then  came  other  voices,  now  near  and 
now  far,  and  after  that  he  seemed  to  rise  up  and  float 
among  the  clouds,  and  for  a  long  time  he  heard  no  other 
sound  and  felt  no  movement,  but  was  like  one  dead. 

Something  soft  and  gentle  and  comforting  roused 
him  out  of  darkness.  He  did  not  move,  he  did  not 
open  his  eyes  for  a  time,  while  reason  came  to  him. 
He  heard  a  voice,  and  it  was  a  woman's  voice,  speaking 


He  stumbled  again  and  again  in  the  fire-muck. 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  285 

softly,  and  another  voice  replied  to  it.  Then  he  heard 
gentle  movement,  and  some  one  went  away  from  him, 
and  he  heard  the  almost  noiseless  opening  and  closing 
of  a  door.  A  very  little  he  began  to  see.  He  was 
in  a  room,  with  a  patch  of  sunlight  on  the  wall.  Also, 
he  was  in  a  bed.  And  that  gentle,  comforting  hand 
was  still  stroking  his  forehead  and  hair,  light  as 
thistledown.  He  opened  his  eyes  wider  and  looked 
up.  His  heart  gave  a  great  throb.  Over  him  was  a 
glorious,  tender  face  smiling  like  an  angel  into  his 
widening  eyes.  And  it  was  the  face  of  Carmin 
Fanchet ! 

He  made  an  effort,  as  if  to  speak. 

"Hush,"  she  whispered,  and  he  saw  something  shin 
ing  in  her  eyes,  and  something  wet  fell  upon  his  face. 
"She  is  returning — and  I  will  go.  For  three  days  and 
nights  she  has  not  slept,  and  she  must  be  the  first  to  see 
you  open  your  eyes." 

She  bent  over  him.  Her  soft  lips  touched  his  fore 
head,  and  he  heard  her  sobbing  breath. 

"God  bless  you,  David  Carrigan !" 

Then  she  was  going  to  the  door,  and  his  eyes  dropped 
shut  again.  He  began  to  experience  pain  now,  a  hot, 
consuming  pain  all  over  him,  and  he  remembered  the 
fight  through  the  path  of  the  fire.  Then  the  door 
opened  very  softly  once  more,  and  some  one  came  in, 
and  knelt  down  at  his  side,  and  was  so  quiet  that  she 
scarcely  seemed  to  breathe.  He  wanted  to  open  his 
eyes,  to  cry  out  a  name,  but  he  waited,  and  lips  soft 
as  velvet  touched  his  own.  They  lay  there  for  a  mo- 


286  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

ment,  then  moved  to  his  closed  eyes,  his  forehead,  his 
hair — and  after  that  something  rested  gently  against 
him. 

His  eyes  shot  open.  It  was  Marie-Anne,  with  her 
head  nestled  in  the  crook  of  his  arm  as  she  knelt  there 
beside  him  on  the  floor.  He  could  see  only  a  bit  of 
her  face,  but  her  hair  was  very  near,  crumpled  glori 
ously  on  his  breast,  and  he  could  see  the  tips  of  her 
long  lashes  as  she  remained  very  still,  seeming  not  to 
breathe.  She  did  not  know  he  had  roused  from  his 
sleep — the  first  sleep  of  those  three  days  of  torture 
which  he  could  not  remember  now ;  and  he,  looking  at 
her,  made  no  movement  to  tell  her  he  was  awake.  One 
of  his  hands  lay  over  the  edge  of  the  bed,  and  so 
lightly  he  could  scarce  feel  the  weight  of  her  fingers 
she  laid  one  of  her  own  upon  it,  and  a  little  at  a  time 
drew  it  to  her,  until  the  bandaged  thing  was  against 
her  lips.  It  was  strange  she  did  not  hear  his  heart, 
which  seemed  all  at  once  to  beat  like  a  drum  inside  him ! 

Suddenly  he  sensed  the  fact  that  his  other  hand  was 
not  bandaged.  He  was  lying  on  his  side,  with  his  right 
arm  partly  under  him,  and  against  that  hand  he  felt 
the  softness  of  Marie-Anne's  cheek,  the  velvety  crush 
of  her  hair ! 

And  then  he  whispered,  "Marie-Anne " 

She  still  lay,  for  a  moment,  utterly  motionless. 
Then,  slowly,  as  if  believing  he  had  spoken  her  name 
in  his  sleep,  she  raised  her  head  and  looked  into  his 
wide-open  eyes.  There  was  no  word  between  them  in 
that  breath  or  two.  His  bandaged  hand  and  his  well 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  287 

hand  went  to  her  face  and  hair,  and  then  a  sobbing  cry 
came  from  Marie- Anne,  and  swiftly  she  crushed  her 
face  down  to  his,  holding  him  close  with  both  her 
arms  for  a  moment.  And  after  that,  as  on  that  other 
day  when  she  kissed  him  after  the  fight,  she  was  up 
and  gone  so  quickly  that  her  name  had  scarcely  left 
his  lips  when  the  door  closed  behind  her,  and  he  heard 
her  running  down  the  hall. 

He  called  after  her,  "Marie-Anne!    Marie- Anne!" 

He  heard  another  door,  and  voices,  and  quick  foot 
steps  again,  coming  his  way,  and  he  was  waiting 
eagerly,  half  on  his  elbow,  when  into  his  room  came 
Ntpapinas  and  Carmin  Fanchet.  And  again  he  saw 
the  glory  of  something  in  the  woman's  face. 

His  eyes  must  have  burned  strangely  as  he  stared  at 
her,  but  it  did  not  change  that  light  in  her  own,  and 
her  hands  were  wonderfully  gentle  as  she  helped 
Nepapinas  raise  him  so  that  he  was  sitting  up  straight, 
with  pillows  at  his  back. 

"It  doesn't  hurt  so  much  now,  does  it?"  she  asked, 
her  voice  low  with  a  mothering  tenderness. 

He  shook  his  head.    "No.    What  is  the  matter?" 

"You  were  burned — terribly.  For  two  days  and 
nights  you  were  in  great  pain,  but  for  many  hours  you 
have  been  sleeping,  and  Nepapinas  says  the  burns  will 
not  hurt  any  more.  If  it  had  not  been  for  you " 

She  bent  over  him.  Her  hand  touched  his  face,  and 
now  he  began  to  understand  the  meaning  of  that  glory 
shining  in  her  eyes. 

"If  it  hadn't  been  for  you — he  would  have  died!" 


288  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

She  drew  back,  turning  to  the  door.  "He  is  coming 
to  see  you — alone,"  she  said,  a  little  broken  note  in 
her  throat.  "And  I  pray  God  you  will  see  with  clear 
understanding,  David  Carrigan — and  forgive  me — as 
I  have  forgiven  you — for  a  thing  that  happened  long 
ago." 

He  waited.  His  head  was  in  a  jumble,  and  his 
thoughts  were  tumbling  over  one  another  in  an  effort  to 
evolve  some  sort  of  coherence  out  of  things  amazing 
and  unexpected.  One  thing  was  impressed  upon  him 
— he  had  saved  St.  Pierre's  life,  and  because  he  had 
done  this  Carmin  Fanchet  was  very  tender  to  him.  She 
had  kissed  him,  and  Marie-Anne  had  kissed  him, 
and 

A  strange  dawning  was  coming  to  him,  thrilling  him 
to  his  finger-tips.  He  listened.  A  new  sound  was 
approaching  from  the  hall.  His  door  was  opened,  and 
a  wheel-chair  was  rolled  in  by  old  Nepapinas.  In  the 
chair  was  St.  Pierre  Audemard.  Feet  and  hands  and 
arms  were  wrapped  in  bandages,  but  his  face  was  un 
covered  and  wreathed  in  smiling  happiness  when  he 
saw  David  propped  up  against  his  pillows.  Nepapinas 
rolled  him  close  to  the  bed  and  then  shuffled  out,  and 
as  he  closed  the  door,  David  was  sure  he  heard  the 
subdued  whispering  of  feminine  voices  down  the  hall. 

"How  are  you,  David?"  asked  St.  Pierre. 

"Fine,"  nodded  Carrigan.     "And  you?" 

"A  bit  scorched,  and  a  broken  leg."  He  held  up 
his  padded  hands.  "Would  be  dead  if  you  hadn't  car- 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  289 

ried  me  to  the  river.  Carmin  says  she  owes  you  her 
life  for  having  saved  mine." 

"And  Marie- Anne?" 

"That's  what  I've  come  to  tell  you  about,"  said  St. 
Pierre.  "The  instant  they  knew  you  were  able  to  lis 
ten,  both  Carmin  and  Marie-Anne  insisted  that  I  come 
and  tell  you  things.  But  if  you  don't  feel  well  enough 
to  hear  me  now " 

"Go  on!"  almost  threatened  David. 

The  look  of  cheer  which  had  illumined  St.  Pierre's 
face  faded  away,  and  David  saw  in  its  place  the  lines 
of  sorrow  which  had  settled  there.  He  turned  his  gaze 
toward  a  window  through  which  the  afternoon  sun 
was  coming,  and  nodded  slowly. 

"You  saw — out  there.  He's  dead.  They  buried 
him  in  a  casket  made  of  sweet  cedar.  He  loved  the 
smell  of  that.  He  was  like  a  little  child.  And  once — 
a  long  time  ago — he  was  a  splendid  man,  a  greater  and 
better  man  than  St.  Pierre,  his  brother,  will  ever  be. 
What  he  did  was  right  and  just,  M'sieu  David.  He 
was  the  oldest — sixteen — when  the  thing  happened.  I 
was  only  nine,  and  didn't  fully  understand.  But  he 
saw  it  all — the  death  of  our  father  because  a  powerful 
factor  wanted  my  mother.  And  after  that  he  knew 
how  and  why  our  mother  died,  but  not  a  word  of  it 
did  he  tell  us  until  years  later — after  the  day  of  venge 
ance  was  past. 

"You  understand,  David?  He  didn't  want  me  in 
that.  He  did  it  alone,  with  good  friends  from  the 
upper  north.  He  killed  the  murderers  of  our  mother 


290  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

and  father,  and  then  he  buried  himself  deeper  into  the 
forests  with  us,  and  we  took  our  mother's  family  name, 
which  was  Boulain,  and  settled  here  on  the  Yellow- 
knife.  Roger — Black  Roger,  as  you  know  him — 
brought  the  bones  of  our  father  and  mother  and  buried 
them  over  in  the  edge  of  that  plain  where  he  died  and 
where  our  first  cabin  stood.  Five  years  ago  a  falling 
tree  crushed  him  out  of  shape,  and  his  mind  went  at 
the  same  time,  so  that  he  has  been  like  a  little  child, 
and  was  always  seeking  for  Roger  Audemard — the 
man  he  once  was.  That  was  the  man  your  law  wanted. 
Roger  Audemard.  Our  brother." 

"Our  brother,"  cried  David.    "Who  is  the  other?1' 

"My  sister." 

"Yes?" 

"Marie-Anne." 

"Good  God!"  choked  David.  "St.  Pierre,  do  you 
lie?  Is  this  another  bit  of  trickery?" 

"It  is  the  truth,"  said  St.  Pierre.  "Marie-Anne  is 
my  sister,  and  Carmin — whom  you  saw  in  my  arms 
through  the  cabin  window " 

He  paused,  smiling  into  David's  staring  eyes,  taking 
full  measure  of  recompense  in  the  other's  heart-break 
ing  attitude  as  he  waited.  " — Is  my  wife,  M'sieu 
David." 

A  great  gasp  of  breath  came  out  of  Carrigan. 

"Yes,  my  wife,  and  the  greatest-hearted  woman  that 
ever  lived,  without  one  exception  in  all  the  world!" 
cried  St.  Pierre,  a  fierce  pride  in  his  voice.  "It  was 
she,  and  not  Marie-Anne,  who  shot  you  on  that  strip  of 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  291 

sand,  David  Carrigan !  Mon  Dieit,  I  tell  you  not  one 
woman  in  a  million  would  have  done  what  she  did — 
let  you  live!  Why?  Listen,  m'sieu,  and  you  will 
understand  at  last.  She  had  a  brother,  years  younger 
than  she,  and  to  that  brother  she  was  mother,  sister, 
everything,  because  they  had  no  parents  almost  from 
babyhood.  She  worshiped  him.  And  he  was  bad.  Yet 
the  worse  he  became,  the  more  she  loved  him  and 
prayed  for  him.  Years  ago  she  became  my  wife,  and 
I  fought  with  her  to  save  the  brother.  But  he  be 
longed  to  the  devil  hand  and  foot,  and  at  last  he  left 
us  and  went  south,  and  became  what  he  was  when  you 
were  sent  out  to  get  him,  Sergeant  Carrigan.  It  was 
then  that  my  wife  went  down  to  make  a  last  fight  to 
save  him,  to  bring  him  back,  and  you  know  how  she 
made  that  fight,  m'sieu — until  the  day  you  hanged 
him!" 

St.  Pierre  was  leaning  from  his  chair,  his  face  ablaze. 
"Tell  me,  did  she  not  fight?"  he  cried.  "And  you, 
until  the  last — did  you  not  fight  to  have  her  put  be 
hind  prison  bars  with  her  brother?" 

"Yes,  it  is  so,"  murmured  Carrigan. 

"She  hated  you,"  went  on  St.  Pierre.  "You  hanged 
her  brother,  who  was  almost  a  part  of  her  flesh  and 
body.  He  was  bad,  but  he  had  been  hers  from  baby 
hood,  and  a  mother  will  love  her  son  if  he  is  a  devil. 
And  then — I  won't  take  long  to  tell  the  rest  of  it! 
Through  friends  she  learned  that  you,  who  had  hanged 
her  brother,  were  on  your  way  to  run  down  Roger 
Audemard.  And  Roger  Audemard,  mind  you,  was  the 


292  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

same  as  myself,  for  I  had  sworn  to  take  my  brother's 
place  if  it  became  necessary.  She  was  on  the  bateau 
with  Marie-Anne  when  the  messenger  came.  She  had 
but  one  desire — to  save  me — to  kill  you.  If  it  had 
been  some  other  man,  but  it  was  you,  who  had  hanged 
her  brother!  She  disappeared  from  the  bateau  that 
day  with  a  rifle.  You  know,  M'sieu  David,  what  hap 
pened.  Marie-Anne  heard  the  shooting  and  came — 
alone — just  as  you  rolled  out  in  the  sand  as  if  dead. 
It  was  she  who  ran  out  to  you  first,  while  my  Carmin 
crouched  there  with  her  rifle,  ready  to  send  another 
bullet  into  you  if  you  moved.  It  was  Marie-Anne  you 
saw  standing  over  you,  it  was  she  who  knelt  down  at 

your  side,  and  then " 

St.  Pierre  paused,  and  he  smiled,  and  then  grimaced 
as  he  tried  to  rub  his  two  bandaged  hands  together. 
"David,  fate  mixes  things  up  in  a  funny  way.  My 
Carmin  came  out  and  stood  over  you,  hating  you ;  and 
Marie-Anne  knelt  down  there  at  your  side,  loving  you. 
Yes,  it  is  true.  And  over  you  they  fought  for  life  or 
death,  and  love  won,  because  it  is  always  stronger  than 
hate.  Besides,  as  you  lay  there  bleeding  and  helpless, 
you  looked  different  to  my  Carmin  than  as  you  did 
when  you  hanged  her  brother.  So  they  dragged  you 
up  under  a  tree,  and  after  that  they  plotted  together 
and  planned,  while  I  was  away  up  the  river  on  the 
raft.  The  feminine  mind  works  strangely,  M'sieu 
David,  and  perhaps  it  was  that  thing  we  call  intuition 
which  made  them  do  what  they  did.  Marie-Anne  knew 
it  would  never  do  for  you  to  see  and  recognize  my  Car- 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  293 

min,  so  in  their  scheming  of  things  she  insisted  on 
passing  herself  off  as  my  wife,  while  my  Carmin  came 
back  in  a  canoe  to  meet  me.  They  were  frightened,  and 
when  I  came,  the  whole  thing  had  gone  too  far  for 
me  to  mend,  and  I  knew  the  false  game  must  be  played 
out  to  the  end.  When  I  saw  what  was  happening — 
that  you  loved  Marie-Anne  so  well  that  you  were  will 
ing  to  fight  for  her  honor  even  when  you  thought  she 
was  my  wife — I  was  sure  it  would  all  end  well.  But  I 
could  take  no  chances  until  I  knew.  And  so  there  were 

bars  at  your  windows,  and " 

St.  Pierre  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  the  lines  of 
grief  came  into  his  face  again,  and  in  his  voice  was 
a  little  break  as  he  continued :  "If  Roger  had  not  gone 
out  there  to  fight  back  the  flames  from  the  graves  of 
his  dead,  I  had  planned  to  tell  you  as  much  as  I  dared, 
M'sieu  David,  and  I  had  faith  that  your  love  for  our 
sister  would  win.  I  did  not  tell  you  on  the  river  because 
I  wanted  you  to  see  with  your  own  eyes  our  paradise 
up  here,  and  I  knew  you  would  not  destroy  it  once 
you  were  a  part  of  it.  And  so  I  could  not  tell  you 
Carmin  was  my  wife,  for  that  would  have  betrayed  us 
— and — besides — that  fight  of  yours  against  a  love 
which  you  thought  was  dishonest  interested  me  very 
much,  for  I  saw  in  it  a  wonderful  test  of  the  man  who 
might  become  my  brother  if  he  chose  wisely  between 
love  and  what  he  thought  was  duty.  I  loved  you  for 
it,  even  when  you  sat  me  there  on  the  sand  like  a  silly 
loon.  And  now,  even  my  Carmin  loves  you  for  bring 
ing  me  out  of  the  fire But  you  are  not  listening !" 


294  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

David  was  looking  past  him  toward  the  door,  and 
St.  Pierre  smiled  when  he  saw  the  look  that  was  in  his 
face. 

"Nepapinas !"  he  called  loudly.    "Nepapinas !" 

In  a  moment  there  was  shuffling  of  feet  outside,  and 
Nepapinas  came  in.  St.  Pierre  held  out  his  two  great, 
bandaged  hands,  and  David  met  them  with  his  own, 
one  bandaged  and  one  free.  Not  a  word  was  spoken 
between  them,  but  their  eyes  were  the  eyes  of  men 
between  whom  had  suddenly  come  the  faith  and  under 
standing  of  a  brotherhood  as  strong  as  life  itself. 

Then  Nepapinas  wheeled  St.  Pierre  from  the  room, 
and  David  straightened  himself  against  his  pillows,  and 
waited,  and  listened,  until  it  seemed  two  hearts  were 
thumping  inside  him  in  the  place  of  one. 

It  was  an  interminable  time,  he  thought,  before 
Marie-Anne  stood  in  the  doorway.  For  a  breath  she 
paused  there,  looking  at  him  as  he  stretched  out  his 
bandaged  arm  to  her,  moved  by  every  yearning  impulse 
in  her  soul  to  come  in,  yet  ready  as  a  bird  to  fly  away. 
And  then,  as  he  called  her  name,  she  ran  to  him  and 
dropped  upon  her  knees  at  his  side,  and  his  arms  went 
about  her,  insensible  to  their  hurt — and  her  hot  face 
was  against  his  neck,  and  his  lips  crushed  in  the  smoth 
ering  sweetness  of  her  hair.  He  made  no  effort  to 
speak,  beyond  that  first  calling  of  her  name.  He  could 
feel  her  heart  throbbing  against  him,  and  her  hands 
tightened  at  his  shoulders,  and  at  last  she  raised  her 
glorious  face  so  near  that  the  breath  of  it  was  on  his 
lips.  Then,  seeing  what  was  in  his  eyes,  her  soft  mouth 


THE  FLAMING  FOREST  295 

quivered  in  a  little  smile,  and  with  a  broken  throb  in 
her  throat  she  whispered, 

"Has  it  all  ended— right— David  ?" 

He  drew  the  red  mouth  to  his  own,  and  with  a  glad 
cry  which  was  no  word  in  itself  he  buried  his  face  in 
the  lustrous  tresses  he  loved.  Afterward  he  could  not 
remember  all  it  was  that  he  said,  but  at  the  end  Marie- 
Anne  had  drawn  a  little  away  so  that  she  was  looking 
at  him,  her  eyes  shining  gloriously  and  her  cheeks  beau 
tiful  as  the  petals  of  a  wild  rose.  And  he  could  see 
the  throbbing  in  her  white  throat,  like  the  beating  of 
a  tiny  heart. 

"And  you'll  take  me  with  you?"  she  whispered  joy 
ously. 

"Yes ;  and  when  I  show  you  to  the  old  man — Super 
intendent  Me  Vane,  you  know — and  tell  him  you're  my 
wife,  he  can't  go  back  on  his  promise.  He  said  if  I 
settled  this  Roger  Audemard  affair,  I  could  have  any 
thing  I  might  ask  for.  And  I'll  ask  for  my  discharge. 
I  ought  to  have  it  in  September,  and  that  will  give  us 
time  to  return  before  the  snow  flies.  You  see " 

He  held  out  his  arms  again.  "You  see,"  he  cried, 
his  face  smothered  in  her  hair  again,  'i^Ve  found  the 
place  of  my  dreams  up  here,  and  I  want  to  stay — 
always.  Are  you  a  little  glad,  Marie- Anne?" 

In  a  great  room  at  the  end  of  the  hall,  with  windows 
opening  in  three  directions  upon  the  wilderness,  St. 
Pierre  waited  in  his  wheel-chair,  grunting  uneasily  now 
and  then  at  the  long  time  it  was  taking  Carmin  to  dis 
cover  certain  things  out  in  the  hall.  Finally  he  heard 


296  THE  FLAMING  FOREST 

her  coming,  tiptoeing  very  quietly  from  the  direction  of 
David  Carrigan's  door,  and  St.  Pierre  chuckled  and 
tried  to  rub  his  bandaged  hands  when  she  came  in,  her 
face  pink  and  her  eyes  shining  with  the  greatest  thrill 
that  can  stir  a  feminine  heart. 

"If  we'd  only  known,"  he  tried  to  whisper,  "I  would 
have  had  the  keyhole  made  larger,  Cherie!  He  deserves 
it  for  having  spied  on  us  at  the  cabin  window.  But — 
tell  me ! — Could  you  see  ?  Did  you  hear  ?  What " 

Carmin's  soft  hand  went  over  his  mouth.  "In  an 
other  moment  you'll  be  shouting,"  she  warned.  "Maybe 
I  didn't  see,  and  maybe  I  didn't  hear,  Big  Bear — but  I 
know  there  are  four  very  happy  people  in  Chateau 
Boulain.  And  now,  if  you  want  to  guess  who  is  the 
happiest " 

"I  am,  chere-caur." 

"No." 

"Well,  then,  if  you  insist — you  are." 

"Yes.    And  the  next?" 

St.  Pierre  chuckled.     "David  Carrigan,"  he  said. 

"No,  no,  no !    If  you  mean  that " 

"I  mean — always — that  I  am  second,  unless  you  will 
ever  let  me  be  first,"  corrected  St.  Pierre,  kissing  the 
hand  that  was  gently  stroking  his  cheek. 

And  then  he  leaned  his  great  head  back  against  her 
where  she  stood  behind  him,  and  Carmin's  fingers  ran 
where  his  hair  was  crisp  with  the  singe  of  fire,  and  for 
a  long  time  they  said  no  other  word,  but  let  their  eyes 
rest  upon  the  dim  length  of  the  hall  at  the  far  end  of 
which  was  David  Carrigan's  room. 


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